Logan and Illyana
by Kaprou
Summary: Web of Shadows AU. Logan has adopted Illyana. A shadowed world of conspiracy and hidden power games threatens them both. Please read, review, and recommend!
1. Homecoming

_**This story is in the Web of Shadows alternate universe. Superheroes are not public, there is no obvious metahuman community, and the world is full of subtle secret power struggles. I'm doing my own thing here! This is designed to be enjoyable if you know these characters from the comics, but if you've never picked up a comic book in your life it will all make sense. Origin stories are different, continuity and canon are ignored, and off we go! (Copyright for the characters is not challenged, even though I'm using more 'inspired by' and 'based on' than 'canon'.)**_

_**Some of these chapters overlap with postings for the Peter Parker Web of Shadows. To omit them would be very damaging to the overall tale of Logan and Illyana, so just deal with it! Our tale spans from the end of 2001 to 2005, where it ends.**_

_**I like reviews, so drop a note and recommend me to your friends!**_

**December 19, 2001**

The slender blonde shouldered her bag and stepped out onto the platform. Her heart raced. She took a few steps to get out of the welling push of people exiting the train, then she started walking. She passed some long benches, taking in the roar of sound, the mass of endless echoes. Then she saw him, walking straight for her, a short man moving with purpose against the crowd.

She didn't realize she was holding her breath. He strode up to her, hair exploding from his jowls, a cowboy hat jammed down on the free sweeping tufts of hair that fanned around his head. He wore flannel, jeans, cowboy boots, and a canvas windbreaker. He was not handsome, or particularly ugly.

"Hello, darlin," he said with a cockeyed grin that always showed off one of his ferocious canines. "How's my Lisa." He opened his arms, and she gave him a quick squeeze of a hug. He was always startlingly hard and hot; his body was one wiry muscle. She let go and put her arms on his shoulders; just slightly taller than he was, she looked into his eyes with a smile. He sniffed her, nose to one side of her face. Simple habit.

"Hello, dad," she said affectionately. "It's been too long."

He shrugged. "Your call. You have a good Thanksgiving?"

"Sure," she sighed. She glanced around. "Let's get out of here."

He nodded, took her hand, and started threading through the crowd. His hand was solid; the bones immobile, the muscle compacted, the flesh above it hard.

They left the train station and crunched through the light snow, strolling towards the parking lot. He tugged a cigar out, tore the tip off with his teeth, and snapped his lighter open. His features looked cavernous in the faint red glow of the flickering lighter. A strange, contemplative indecision lurked in his expression as he puffed on the cigar once, then the lighter snapped shut.

Lisa smiled at him, almost too cheerful as he looked her over. Then they reached his truck.

He opened the rusted door to his ancient green pickup; it groaned in protest. He hopped in. She waited for him to unlock it, then saw it was not locked. She clambered in beside him. "Aren't you the trusting sort," she said.

He barked a laugh. "Anybody wants to steal my truck can. If they just vandalize it, no two bit metal bar in the door'll stop that." He fired up the truck, and they drove through the freshly plowed streets towards his apartment.

**xXx**

Snow.

When he was a kid, Peter had thought snow was the most beautiful thing in the world. Now he knew it for certain. He held perfectly still, clinging to the side of the skyscraper. His senses soaked in his surroundings; he felt the flakes stacked against the web mesh of his body suit. He tasted and examined the sifting ice from the sky, he felt the drafts from the street flare up through the sifting snowfall as gravity gently drew the flakes down. His painfully sharp senses tracked the movement above, below, and against him. He felt vertigo, as though he was drifting up through the snow.

Magnificent.

He checked the time. His subconscious was much more helpful than it used to be; it counted his heartbeats, did the mathematics accounting for how his pulse sped up or slowed down, and cross referenced with the objective length of a second. He had once spent a full hour internalizing the rhythmic tick of a second hand. He had been at a lecture, and it seemed there was nothing better to do.

Rapid flurries of calculations beneath his thoughts, and he knew he'd been hanging there for about an hour. He smiled. He let his temperature rise to the slight fever his body preferred. Enough snow. Time to take a look around.

A disturbingly lithe gargoyle, he sprang clear of the snow that had gathered on him, falling spreadeagled towards the street a hundred feet below. At thirty feet, he snapped into action. He thought of swinging down the corridor of buildings, and his body moved and hissed webbing out; it sliced through the night like a thing alive, warmed by his body, and snapped into high-rise steel. His arc changed, and he was moving through the night, gravity simply pressing him against his speed. Discarded webbing dissolved like a thin snowdrift in afternoon sun.

**xXx**

Logan shook out another bedspread for the battered old bed. Lisa smiled. She moved to the window and looked out across the street.

"Hey, Lisa, did you get anything to eat on the train?" Logan asked.

"Train food," she said with a shrug.

"I knew it," he said, a grin threatening to show all of his feral teeth. He rubbed his hands together warmly. "You up for some sausage potato mash for supper?"

"Only if you've got some beer to put in it," she smiled.

"You kiddin? I knew this was gonna be a special occasion," he said, and he stepped around the corner into the kitchen. "Mash, comin right up, darlin. You just sit tight."

She wandered out of the small bedroom as he got busy, opening and shutting the fridge, cabinets, drawers. She looked around the tiny apartment; living room, bathroom, kitchenette, closet. And that was all. She shook her head gently, trying to lose the memories of this place. The memories that made this trip difficult, more difficult than it should be.

She leaned on the doorframe, knowing better than to offer to help him with his culinary masterpiece. He had the knife out, its impact on the cutting board a staccato rapping. In less than a minute he had cut up a disturbing amount of meat and potatoes. He tossed it all in a pan and started cooking. He had taken off his hat, and his hair swept up in all its glory. She smiled and shook her head.

"Laughin at my do, aintcha," he said out of the side of his mouth. He grinned. "Barber's Despair, that's me." He looked at her. "So how's Boston been treating my girl?"

"Good," she said firmly, nodding. "It's good. I'm learning a lot."

"Just want you to know," he said, looking down at the mess that was starting to sizzle, "I'm awful proud of you, darlin."

She smiled, but there was nothing she could say.

**xXx**

Peter sighed. Getting late. Time to finish his workout and go home. _Strip off the mesh, go to sleep, become half-alive, bow to gravity, shrink._

He shook his head. Fine. So get a workout first. He looked down at the interstate. Lots of trucks tonight. He sprang, landing on a semi moving almost eighty. Wind battered him, trying to fling him off. Calculations whirred through his blood as his body made decisions for him, and he let the wind tear him loose. He hissed through the air and trailed his fingers along the top of a semi ten yards back, slowing to a sticky clamp on its trailer. Wind screamed around him like a thing alive and made of fury.

Another spring. Thwap, on a gasoline tanker truck. He sighed, his heart not in it. Enough fun for one evening. A quick bound carried him over the median and onto the side of a cattle car, and from there web carried him up under the overpass. His black mesh made him a shadow among shadows, and he made no more sound than the snow. Carried through the night on thin web, he felt the ever-present voice in the back of his mind.

_Being a spider host instead of a gifted human would mean less dating and more mating. You don't HAVE to lead a double life._ He grinned as his thoughts strayed towards a certain red-head. Distracted, he let his webs carry him home.

**xXx**

Lisa pushed the plate back. "Wow. You haven't lost that certain special something you have with mash making," Lisa said. He smiled.

They looked at each other for a minute, and he sighed and took a swig of his beer. "Go ahead," he said.

"You said that when I graduated from college you'd tell me who my biological parents are," she said.

His voice was low and unpleasant. "I said I'd tell you what I know about where you come from. Not who your parents are, I don't know that."

"But you can guess," she said softly. "I'm months away from graduating. I just wanted to make sure you remembered our deal."

"Never forgot a deal in my life, darlin," he said slowly. "You askin me ta break my word? Jump the gun? There some reason I won't be around in a couple months?" He slowly raised his eyes to meet hers, and there was a steadyness in them that was unnerving. An elevated train roared by outside, so they sat speechless, looking at each other. Something of sadness was in his eyes, and she found it difficult to meet his gaze. It went too deep, much too deep. As though he knew more than he was supposed to about why she came. Her blood ran cold.

"Never mind," she said, standing up and fumbling with her napkin. "I'm exhausted. See you tomorrow, Logan."

"Night darlin," he said softly as she closed the door to the bedroom.

**xXx**

Peter lay under the covers, hands laced behind his head, trying to go to sleep. He noticed things. He noticed the phase and pace of the moon. He noticed there were one hundred and forty six twigs on the branch outside his window. He noticed that about thirty yards away an owl prowled above the dumpsters looking for dinner-seekers to make into dinner. He noticed that his aunt had laundered his bedspread, and used starch. He noticed the tiny humps and imperfections in his mirror. He noticed that he wasn't going to get more than his four hours of sleep unless he got a REAL workout, not just some truck hopping. Damn. If he stayed in bed much longer his brain would be telling him what the thread count of his sheets was. He rolled out of bed and unzipped his backpack.

"Okay, brain," he said as he tugged his calculus book out, "notice the answers to these." Because he knew it would. He was really, really good at seeing patterns and mapping webs of interconnected variables.

"Maybe I should just sleep on the wall," he muttered. He started in on the calculus, but his mind was wandering.

_HER planner had a note. Tomorrow, the park, choir concert. We should go. Support her._ His spider mind sprang free of calculations and started working through some less helpful ideas. He sighed.

"Spider sense, indeed. Spider id, more like," he muttered. "Need a _real _workout next time." His silk glands weren't even itching.

Not much later, Peter discovered that the best pillow is an open book.

**December 20, 2001**

Dawn was bright and clear, and Lisa was in the shower vigorously scrubbing. She had been through every de-scenter and deodorizer she could find. She had even scraped her skin and bought new clothes before coming to meet Logan. She wondered if he could still tell. She wondered if her caution alone had told him too much.

When she was in high school, it had been a game they played. She would come home from school, and he would tell her about her day. Happiness and sorrow, fury and amusement were all writ in her scent. He knew what her classrooms smelled like, what she had for lunch. She wondered if it ever drove him to the edge of madness to be so sensitive to smell. She wondered how he lived in a building full of people.

Nothing for it now. She didn't put on perfume because she knew he disliked it. She still worried about scent, though. He was so sharp, too sharp.

She completed her brief makeup ritual and stepped out. Logan was wearing an undershirt and heavy canvas pants. Barefoot, he hunched on the couch over a bowl of Marshmallow Maties. He watched the Fishing Channel.

She poured herself some cereal. "Morning, dad," she said.

"Mornin," he grunted. "I was gonna make some bacon and eggs, but I realized you'd be watchin yer girlish figure." He grinned.

"_Some_ of us have to worry about cholesterol," she sniffed.

He chuckled. "So what are we doin today?"

"Well, it's Saturday," she said. "I was thinking about going to the park."

"Then the park it is," he said. He hopped up and padded noiselessly into the kitchen, rinsing his bowl. He was always fastidious about food leftovers. She imagined she would be too if her sniffer told her exactly what they were doing as they sat there unwashed. She watched him tug his socks and boots on, then a shirt, then the windbreaker.

"You know, it _is_ winter out there," she said dryly.

"Yep." He barked a laugh. "Sure is."

He regarded her for a long moment as she pulled her coat on. "I know why we're goin to the park," he said suddenly. She froze.

"Really?" she said in a very casual voice.

"Yep." He fired up a cigar. "You think you can outmatch yer dad in a snowball fight. Ain't happnen, darlin."  
"You haven't seen my new packing technique up close yet, Mister Logan," she said, and something unclenched inside her. She realized deep in her bones how dangerous this game really was.

Then they left. As an afterthought, he locked the door. "I _like_ that tv," he said with a shrug. She laughed.

They hit the street, walking towards the park. Lisa saw a Starbucks across the street. "Hey dad?"

"Yes darlin?"

"Could you get me a triple mocha?" She smiled and batted her eyelashes in her most disarming manner.

He slapped his forehead. "Coffee! Damn, how could I forget coffee? Yer a college girl now," he grinned. He loped across the street, hair in full glory. She watched him go until he was across five lanes of traffic on a busy Saturday morning. She stepped out of sight around the corner and dug her cell phone out of her purse. She swiftly autodialed a number.

"Bryant. This is Lisa. We're headed for the park. We'll go to the gazebo on the east end." She snapped the phone shut and stepped around the corner as Logan trotted back across the street with a steaming cup.

"Service with a smile," she said, taking the cup.

"Warm yer blood while you can," Logan growled. He ruffled her hair, and they headed off down the street. She kept one eye on him, and he seemed a bit distracted; he sniffed, now and then, as though he smelled something he didn't like. She looked at the cars and their exhaust, the dumpsters, the cologne on the people on the street, her own coffee. Impossible. He couldn't guess.

He looked at her sideways, then paid attention to the sidewalk, thrusting his hands into his pockets. Neither of them spoke.

**xXx**

Peter snapped a shot of an old woman feeding pigeons. Then he strolled down the path, most certainly not heading for the gazebo. He felt stupid. It was a good three hours before the rehearsal started, and then another hour before the performance. And he was out here snapping shots of pigeons.

As he walked, his senses unreeled feelers and tendrils to be carried in the wind every which direction. One of them grasped something; his consciousness didn't know what he sensed, but he didn't like it. Alertness snapped awake in him, subtly changing his face. A woman steered her child away as he stood, rigid, testing the air.

"Like I have anything better to do," his consciousness said as he reeled himself towards the thread.

He moved to the edge of the park and found himself looking at a UPS truck.

"This is it?" he muttered to himself. He focused on it. What was wrong with the UPS truck?

Like knitting needles, his consciousness and his senses worked to build a net of answer to the question. For one, it had doors. For another, it had run flat tires. And judging by the weight on them, it was armored. Peter narrowed his eyes. No banks or businesses near the armored truck. So what gives? He cast his senses, waiting quietly. It didn't take long to pick up the homeless man standing by the trash can with an expensive headset under his stocking cap and the cold metal of a submachine gun under his coat.

He hesitated, torn. Something was obviously about to go down here. But was it his problem?

Even if it wasn't, he could be prepared to watch someone else's problem. He was, after all, a hero. And Mary Jane wasn't scheduled to arrive for a couple hours yet. Damn four hours a night.

He slipped off into an alley and squatted behind a dumpster. In seconds he had slipped out of his clothes. His mesh was a black mat adhered to the skin of his lower back. As he shucked his clothes and slipped the mesh free, he felt himself waking up, unfolding; his body temperature started to rise, his muscles tensed, his sinews loosened. Oh yeah.

He bagged his clothes in web, rolling them with unnatural speed and stowing them behind the dumpster. Then he was skimming up to the roof, wondering if all this was really just an excuse to crawl the wall once again.


	2. Betrayal

**xXx**

They did not speak to each other as they walked towards the gazebo. He looked at her once. She did not look at him. They stopped in front of the gazebo, and faced each other.

"This aint about snowballs, is it, darlin," he said softly.

"No, Mister Logan, it isn't,' she said.

"Whatever it is you brought me for, it's got you tied in knots," he said.

"More than you know," she agreed, her voice distant. She stepped away.

"What is this all about then?" he asked. "I came here with you because I figure you're in some kind of trouble."

"No trouble," she said clearly. "No trouble at all."

"Talk to me," he said. This was as close to begging as he got.

"I haven't been in Boston, Logan," she murmured.

"So where you been?"

"Saskatchewan," she said softly. She took another step back. "Bryant! Creed!"

Logan's eyes snapped wide open as a shadow loomed from downwind. He spun low, sniffing, to see a vast mountain of muscle rise up out of the snow. From behind him stepped a man in a suit, tie, trench coat, and gloves, his red hair cropped close.

"Hello, Logan," he said. "The Project needs you back."

Logan's eyes locked on Creed; well over six feet, maned in golden curls, solid with hard flesh and muscle and tough hide, wearing a combat jumpsuit. The towering brute stood up straight; still no fat on him. Right. Logan's eyes narrowed, every sense sharpened painfully, and he prepared himself to fight for his life.

"Don't know what you had to do with this, darlin," he growled to Lisa, "but you don't wanna be here when we tussle. Get lost."

"You don't understand," she said.

"No," he agreed, not taking his eyes off of Creed, who stood glistening with snow. "No I don't."

He popped his claws.

With the slithering hiss of unsheathing metal, gleaming blades slid out of the backs of his hands; they steamed with his body heat when exposed to the chill air.

"It doesn't have to be this way, Logan," Bryant said, his Canadian accent heavy. "You can come peacefully and no one will get hurt."

"Until I get back to yer stinkin lab," Logan growled. "No, let's do the hurtin here."

"I'm sorry," Bryant said. Creed grinned.

They were growling; a subaudial ferocity that radiated almost from the bones of the two men that faced off; Creed towered over Logan, confident as a lion facing a wolf. Then, the growl was no longer subaudial. It swelled to a roar. Logan met him halfway.

Creed's first slash went wide, and Logan ducked under it. Twisting in the snow, he drove his claws up through the monster's forearm, missing bone. Not missing tendon. With a tearing swallowing sound, Creed's muscles rolled away from his wrist as Logan cut the flesh ropes that held them in place. Quick, Logan slid his claws free, rolling through the snow as Creed's scream of fury silenced the park. Police sirens started in the near distance.

Logan popped up, spinning, but he had forgotten Creed's speed. The monster dropped by him and crushed a blow into the side of his head; Creed's fist was the size of a concrete block and three times as solid, and it was backed by the power of a piledriver. Bone rang off metal, for Logan's skull was not so easily crushed. The small man flew through the air and smashed through the gazebo, ending up somewhere under it.

Threads of tendon trailed from the brutalized muscles in Creed's arm; they gathered strength, and he howled as his muscles began to pull themselves back into place.

Bloody, Logan rose from the wreckage.

Just getting warmed up.

**xXx**

First he heard a howl unlike anything he'd ever heard before. Then a clang echoed through the park, sounding like a car wreck. Peter sprang across the rooftops until he got a vantage where he could see the blood in the snow.

He saw a monstrous man, slathered with blood and snow, and the crushed gazebo, and the man dragging himself out of it. He saw a blonde and a guy in a trench coat just standing there watching. Every sensible civilian had fled, so he had to assume these two were involved. His whole body tingled in anticipation.

"Hold your horses," he muttered. "Who says we're getting involved?"

Then he saw the three men working their way around the back of the gazebo, out of sight behind the hill. They were toting what his senses immediately identified as plasma weapons.

"Not nice," he muttered, shaking his head. "That's just not very nice."

He dropped from the roof like the shadow of a bird.

**xXx**

Logan's face was a mass of blood; his windbreaker hung from him in shreds, and his foot pushed out of one of his split boots. He waited, and Creed circled him like a lion trying to eat a porcupine.

"I've forgotten what your skeleton looks like," Creed said slowly, his deep voice welling out of somewhere below his chest. "I want to see it again." He flexed, and claws slid out of his fingertips; thick, black, vicious blades made entirely by his body.

"What," Logan said, "a peep at my skull aint doin it for you?"

Creed sprang, and Logan rolled under him, lashing out at his knee. The blades slid through hide and dragged along the meat of his muscle, scoring his calf. Creed spun to land, facing Logan as the shorter man popped up.

"Yer close to the edge, bub," Logan rasped. "Don't find it. Not here in front of the lady."

"Just don't get it, do ya," grunted Creed. "Show me what you got, shrimp."

"Help me out," Logan rasped. "Hit me again."

Creed slid up to him, and Logan hopped to the side. Creed spun, and Logan darted in to stick his back. There was a whole lot of back, though, and Creed's spin gave extra force to the claws that crushed into Logan's side, effortlessly slicing skin, flesh, muscle, and ringing off his steely ribs. Logan skidded across the snow, then leaped up, gore trailing from his wounds. Creed bared his teeth, and sucked the gob of Logan's flesh off his glittering claws.

"Let's dance," Logan managed, and that was the last his consciousness could manage.

Now. Now it was time to drop the hammer.

Everything went red.

He skimmed across the snow, dancing low. Creed grinned, because now they were a match. His only hope was that Logan would do for him what he just did for Logan. He hadn't been pushed over the edge in far, far too long, and he chafed at the order to bring Logan in alive. Pure foolishness. He would end it here.

Logan sprang, and Creed's speed failed him. Claws punched into his ribs, and the momentum shoved him backward; he had forgotten how heavy Logan was. The claws came out through bone, and in spite of the bursting pain Creed was more worried about his skeleton holding his strength together than he was about dying. Blood slopped into his lungs, coughed out his face to spatter Logan. Then those claws took the tendons on the left side of his throat. He half roared, half sprayed, and hurled Logan from him. Yes. Yes. Now he was close. Something in the back of his mind tried to tell him something. He ignored it.

Creed lashed out at Logan, who caught his wrist in those damned claws, tugging him off balance. The other claws rammed into his face; he felt his left eye go, felt the claw slide through the cartilage of his nose and ring against the back of his skull. The claws slid back out, and Logan spun, taking the flesh and some bone from the top of his head in a furious slash. Logan was frantic and vicious, unstoppable, an elemental thing of fury.

Creed finally crested. All the pain became his friend. He no longer needed to think.

He managed a wet coughing grunt as he loomed over Logan; so quick. He crashed, bearing down with all his strength and weight, and Logan did not get free, or even try. They locked on the ground; Creed groped for joints or neck, Logan squirming to get his claws into Creed's muscle groups.

Lisa stood by Bryant. "Why did I have to be here for this?" she asked, her voice cold.

"You needed to see it," Bryant replied, fascinated by the fight. "We needed to see you see it." He looked over at her, and his eyes were not kind. "You want to be cured, right?"

He looked back at the fight, where Creed's arm went suddenly loose and he popped up as though he was doing a pushup; they saw the glinting tips of the claws punch through the back of his shoulders.

"It isn't over yet," Bryant said.

Creed drove down on the claws and they heard a wet crack as he rammed his wounded head into Logan. The small man tore his claws out, and managed to free himself. He stood, panting, badly torn. Creed, his head sealing but his eyes full of blood, managed to stagger to his feet, arms hanging limp, claw holes squirting as his body desperately tried to seal them. Neither knew any words.

Lisa looked down, startled, as Bryant handed her a peculiar silvered pistol. "Shoot Logan," Bryant said, his voice unemotional. He turned his cold eyes on her. "Take him alive."

"He'll be killed by Creed!" she said

"He won't," Bryant snapped. "Prove yourself."

She steeled herself and raised the pistol. It was warm, and it thrummed in her hand. She looked at Logan, and for a moment he looked over at her; she wasn't sure what level of understanding he had at that moment. She couldn't bear to wonder.

She pulled the trigger.

A hot line of living flame leaped from the gun and lashed into Logan. Pierced, he flew back as the gazebo behind him burst into flame. He collapsed, smoking. Creed threw back his head and howled.

"Wells! Now!" Bryant shouted. Police cars were streaming into the park, headed towards the battle. "NOW!" Bryant repeated loudly.

"Don't think they heard you," came a chipper voice from behind him. He spun to see a shadow, lithe and stringy, with huge pale eyes. Over his shoulder was a webbed bundle with three plasma rifles peeking out. "Your heavily armed friends are taking a nap."

"Who are you?" Bryant said, at a loss.

"I'm with the NRA, and we were wondering if we could get some sweet deals on your merchandise," the shadow pattered. "You know, less Charleton Heston and more Brad Pitt."

Bryant whipped out a pistol, but before he could level it at the shadowman it had left his hand and entered the web bag. "Let me guess," the shadow said as it pushed him, not gently, sending him sailing across the snow: "somebody told you yew wuz fast."

There was a peculiar unzipping sound, and Lisa's gun whipped free of her hand and was in the bag. Then the bag hit the ground, and the shadow figure leaped towards where Creed bent over Logan.

"Bad dog no biskit," the shadowed man prattled as he came in low. "No chewy snack."

Creed, even in his excited state, had no difficulty adjusting. With a throaty snarl he lashed out. The shadow man slid to his side in the snow, less than an inch below the hissing swipe. "Whoah, Cujo," he said.

He sprang as his mouth kept running, his foot touching Creed's elbow on the way up. Then he was on top of the hulking shoulders.

"Holy joints!" he said as he squatted, slamming a fist down on the top of each shoulder. There was a shifting crunch, and blood sprayed out of Creed's punctured arms. The shadowy figure hopped free, landing twenty feet away as Creed dropped to one knee, screaming.

Police cars pulled up, and cops started running for the flaming gazebo. The shadowy man patted out the fire on Logan, then scooped him up, scuttling up the side of a nearby building with the crippled man over his shoulder.

Bryant snarled with rage. "Come on," he said to Lisa, and they turned and ran.

By the time the police arrived, all that was left at the site was a lot of blood, a flaming gazebo, and a net bag full of plasma weapons.

A trail of blood led into the city, then thinned to nothing.

**xXx**

He was moving fast, building to building. Finally he crouched on First Bank and Trust. Mercy Hospital was below. He adjusted his passenger, and prepared to drop. There might still be time to save his life.

"Put me down," came a hard, muffled voice. Peter slung his passenger to the ground and took a step back. And gasped.

The man laying there had unbroken skin on his head, and his wounds were much less grievous in this light than they had been in the park.

"Who the hell are you?" growled the wounded man.

"A good Samaritan who happened to see you turned into a wet sack of lasagna by Furs R Us in the park. I thought you could use some professional help. Medical, I mean."

The wounded man gave him a long look. "You don't really ever shut up, do you," he said.

The shadow shrugged. "_You_ gotta get hit to let go. _I_ just keep talking, and my instinct takes care of the rest. Nothing more dangerous than stopping to think. Gotta keep the mind busy."

"I guess I can see yer point," the wounded man said. "My name's Logan."

The shadow hesitated. "Good to meet you, Logan."

"Whaddya want me ta call you? Tinkerbell?"

"Has a nice ring to it, but let's stick with Peter."

"Peter, right. Uh, I don't remember so good what happened at the end there at the park. Where's the blonde girl? And where's Creed?"

"The blonde ran off with the guy in the trench coat. Is Creed the big guy?" Logan nodded. "So they call it Creed. I half expected they'd have a monogrammed collar for him, and a little pet sweater. He managed to drag himself off, but I don't think he'll get far."

"He heals faster than I do, Peter," Logan said, shifting position. "He'll be fine. Dammit. Guess I just didn't hit him hard enough."

"How's your burn?" Peter asked.

"Hurts," Logan said softly.

They were quiet for a while. The sun reached the middle of the sky.

"You got a family?" Logan asked.

"Let's not get too personal, okay?" Peter said. "I know this is really a dashing outfit, and you have no idea how comfortable it is, but—"

"You're a college student, you live in a house with an old woman, prob'ly around Second and Bleeker. White male, five foot ten, no drinking, no smoking, not too much meat, really likes potato chips and root beer. Relax. I'm just making conversation."

Peter had nothing to say to that.

Logan gestured uncomfortably at his face. "It's my sniffer. Tells me more'n I want to know sometimes. You've seen me at my worst, and saved my bacon from a fate worse than death. I guess it's hard not to know who you are, that's all."

"Are you going to be okay?" Peter asked, suddenly moved.

Logan looked up at him, a gleam in his eye. "Yeah. I'll be okay. I just got some questions I need answers to."

"You're going to tangle with Creed again?"

"And then some. That joker with him is Bryant, And the blonde is Lisa. We used to be friends, Lisa and me. But Bryant, he was always bad news. Hails from Canada. He holds Creed's leash."

"You think they'll stay in town?"

"Kid, I spent almost twenty years runnin away from them. They've found me. They aint gonna just let me go. I can either start runnin again, or I can get the answers I'm after and settle up between us what aint right."

Peter hesitated again, caught in conflicting emotions. The spider lost. "Need some help?"

Logan looked up at him quickly, squinting against the sun. "You offerin to help me?"

"Well, as fixated as my age group is on scan tron and Gallup polls, in this case I mean to help you if you need it."

"You're a regular hero," Logan said with a grin. Peter was unsettled to see two teeth already knifing back through the gums where they'd been knocked out less than an hour before.

"Let's not get all mushy," Peter said. "If Creed's sniffer is as good as yours, it's in my best interests."

Logan smiled. "Sure, kid."

"Why'd I even bother telling you my name?" Peter wondered aloud.

"Cause yer such a hero," Logan grinned. "Help me up. I got a bolthole in case of emergency, which this is. You go on home, and stay sharp. Creed likes to hit the people you care about. If Bryant gets control of him again, he'll be coming after me. Otherwise, he'll look for either of us. He'll figure if he finds you he can squeeze my wherebouts out of you, and you won't like it." He stopped, and looked hard at Peter.

"Thank you. I mean it. I'll pay you back someday."

Peter just nodded; there was nothing to say to that. Then, he hopped off the roof and was gone.

Logan dragged himself to his feet and looked up at the sky. Then he nodded. No need for vows. There was only one thing to be done, one mystery to unravel. Then, he would know what to do.

The city swallowed them up, and the helicopters that crisscrossed its skies saw nothing.


	3. Setup

**December 21, 2001**

She walked up behind the slim young man, stopping an armspan behind where he hunched over his lunch tray. "Hello, Peter," she said, walking around the end of the table and sitting down facing him. "Don't see you here in the Commons much."

Peter looked up, a bit startled, and he smiled. He hastily swallowed his mouthful of food.

"Aunt May is a really great cook," Peter grinned.

"So you've said," she nodded. She looked briefly around the cafeteria. "Got Christmas plans, Parker?"

"Christmas? Oh, Aunt May and I are going to have a real holiday blowout. I'll probably help her watch Christmas movies until it's time for supper. I'll help her cook. Then we'll eat and open presents and she'll retire from the festivities about nine. I'll make sure the yule tide log doesn't torch the place, and then I'll wander off to bed at a more collegial time in the morning. How about you?"

"Headed to Texas on a family trip. Believe me, yours sounds like more fun." She made a face.

"I think it's going to snow again," Peter said. "Might not be able to fly out."

"If I couldn't, then I'd need a bobsled to get around town."

"Or a chauffeur," he said with a cockeyed grin. "Did you know I have a magic carpet?"

"I did not know that," she said, nodding her head, her bright green eyes wide. He forgot what he was going to say, watching her cute little nose and those mock serious eyes, that beautiful pale face framed in crimson. She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow. "Parker?"

"Yes," he said, blinking. "Yes. Please excuse me. I am slow of mind." He put his fist up to his forehead. "Christmas. Carpets. Right." He flushed pink. "So when do you leave?"

"Saturday afternoon," she said. He desperately tried to remember what day it was.

"Saturday, right," he said sagely, fumbling for his day planner. "So what are you doing before you go? Got steamer trunks to pack?"

"More like an overnight bag. Why?"

"Oh, just wondering whether airline regulations really do let people move households on airplanes or if they're more strict about the two carry on limit, that's all," he pattered. "Aaand, to, see, if, you, needed to get anything done in town while you were gone so I could maybe help out."

"Peter," she said with a grin. "Are you offering to take care of my cat?"

"Yes!" he said. "I am offering to take care of your cat. You have a cat?"

"My roomie does," she said. "The adorable furball's name is Hellraiser. I'm sure you'll get along. Tell you what. Why don't you come by tomorrow afternoon and I'll show you around. Deal?"

"Deal," he said.

"Two okay?"

"I'll be there with bells on."

"That's hardly necessary," she said with a smile. "Hellraiser might think you're a chew toy. Here." She took his day planner and opened it randomly, scribbled her address and phone number in, snapped it shut, and slid it back. "See you tomorrow," she said with a dazzling smile, then she was swaying off.

And he just sat there watching.

"I am offering to take care of your cat?" he said to himself. "Her _cat?_" He groaned, his head sinking down to his arms on the table. "'Mary Jane, would you like to go out to dinner with me?' And it comes out 'I am offering to take care of your cat?'" He groaned again, and slowly thumped his head against his arms. "Smooth like serrated gravel, Parker. And, for those who are completely hopelessly clueless, today is _Friday._"

**xXx**

Creed inhaled deeply, filling his vast lungs with the air of the city. He bared his teeth at the sky in welcome, challenge, triumph, and defiance. Then he slung his bulk down from the pile of crushed cars. He prowled through the junkyard, sniffing this way and that.

It was good to be free again. He had forgotten just how much he hated wearing a suit, attending meetings, living inside and underground, following the list of rules, fitting where he did not fit. It was like coming alive again, this prowling. He would have been dissatisfied if he was not hunted. The danger he faced spiced his food, flavored his water, perfumed his air. He was alive again. Surely Bryant would know that. Surely Bryant was wise enough to fear it.

Creed cleared the back fence of the junkyard, leaping over the fifteen feet of chain link topped by cyclone barbed wire. He landed heavily in the alley between the junkyard and the restaurant.

First kill Logan. Once in possession of Logan's body, this whole expedition became vindicated. Then he could return, and if Bryant was clever he wouldn't press charges or attempt discipline. Bryant just didn't understand. For this kind of task, you couldn't use the conventional methods, the usual procedures. Logan was not a man. Logan was a predator. You hunt them differently. If possible, you hunt them one on one through the jungle.

Creed bared his teeth again. He knew Logan. He knew that right now, Logan was hunting him. Moving with startling silence and grace for one of his enormity, he catfooted down the alley and vanished into the gloom of the warehouse district. He would find the right place to confront Logan, then he would find Logan himself, then he would return to the Project. First things first.

He had no doubt he would succeed. Logan was civilized overmuch. He wouldn't pay enough attention.

In the end, Logan would be a trophy.

**December 22, 2001**

Logan stood in the shadows watching the man in the pinstripe suit explain to the cop where things stood.

"This is a matter for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Officer Calvin. I'm afraid you _don't _have jurisdiction." Another vanilla agent; Logan looked him over and wondered if he knew who he really answered to or if he was just following the next highest tier. Trim dark hair, handsome square jaw, nice tie with an Oxford knot. Very clean cut.

"Any idea how long this cleanup is going to take, _Agent?_" the officer asked. "This investigation may be your jurisdiction, but it's surrounded by my jurisdiction, which includes people who want to use the park and wonder why you guys can come in on helicopters through restricted airspace."

The agent took a step towards the policeman. "Explain it to them so they are soothed and comforted, then get on with keeping the peace." He turned his back and looked to where the team was scanning the charred rubble of the gazebo where the fight had taken place. Another team was collecting blood samples from the smeared earth.

"You should be serving and protecting," the agent said in a low voice. The cop sighed, turned, and slung himself down into his cruiser.

"Good luck, Agent," he said. He started the car and turned in the narrow space, then drove down the avenue.

Logan grinned. Time to check his hunch. He strolled out of the shadows toward the agent, who was busy on his cell phone arranging for the lab to work doubletime on the blood samples. "Scuse me," he said.

The agent ignored him. He cleared his throat.

"Scuse me," he repeated. "I hear there's a Starbucks around here and I got a mighty thirst for some coffee."

The agent looked over his shoulder at him, irritated. "D'ya mind?" he asked, tense. Then it hit him; recognition. Dilation of the pupils, arrested thought and posture; Logan knew he was recognized. Good.

"Down the street, to the left. Can't miss it."

"Thanks, bub," Logan said. He strolled down the sidewalk. The agent was too well briefed to wait until he was out of earshot to make a call. He trotted towards the rest of his team, unsure of earshot's range. Smart move. These guys might be a workout.

Might.

Old instincts flowed through him. He ducked into the alley and leaped, catching the fire escape. He tugged himself up, his swiftness making it look easy. Then he was prowling towards the top, tier after tier. In a minute he reached the flat roof, walking between air conditioning units. He glanced over the edge to make sure he was on the right building, the one with the best view of Starbucks.

The choppers had been in earshot for a minute or so, but they weren't close enough to spot him yet, and he knew they'd hang back until the pursuit started. He jogged to the roof entry and slid down to the side, in its shadow. He waited. Listened. He heard footsteps on the stairs.

The man on the steps stopped, fumbled with the lock, opened the door. Logan watched him from behind as he moved forward to the edge of the roof, flipped his ball cap around backward, and set up his sniper rifle.

"Check," the newcomer said softly into his headset as he snapped the rifle's matte scope open. "This is Eagle One, I have full view."

Logan stealthed up behind the sniper, who swung the barrel of his gun this way and that, quickly learning the street. Logan glanced down the stairwell; backup wasn't coming this high. No action up here. He moved right behind the man; smelled his Old Spice, his dryer sheets, his cooling sweat, his shampoo.

Logan put a fist against the back of the man's head. Gently. "Move and die," he whispered. "Nod once if you understand."

The man very slowly nodded once.

Logan glanced at his gear. Standard setup. He clicked the headset off. "You know who I am," he muttered.

Nod.

"You seem bright enough. You understand your position. Tell me where Bryant's headquarters are."

"I can't do that," the man said. "I don't know."

Logan grunted, then yanked the man back over his leg. The sniper crashed down on his back, his gun still propped up on the wall. Logan knelt on his shoulder and gripped his vest, breathing into his face as he locked eyes. "I can't think of a single reason to let you live then," he whispered.

The sniper lay very still, breathing fast and shallow. "Wait. The captain is in the lobby, with a swat team. I don't even know who Bryant is."

Logan grinned.

"I thought of a reason to let you live," he said.

**xXx**

Peter knocked on Mary Jane's door. She opened it a few seconds later. She was dressed in a careless sweatshirt and jeans. She grinned at him. "Come on in," she said. "Amy's just leaving."

Peter grinned and followed her. Amy, Mary Jane's roommate, was just hauling on her winter coat. She flashed a smile at Peter. "I get to go to Nebraska for my boyfriend's family's Christmas," she said. "Thanks for taking care of Hellraiser."

"I live to serve," Peter said. "Need help with your bags?"

"You're a prince," Amy said, and Peter picked up her suitcase.

"Taking a lot of books, or just sticks of firewood?" he asked, struggling with the weight.

"Bowling balls for all you know, smartalec," Amy said, and with a very blonde flounce she led the way out the door.

After stowing her gear in her SUV, Peter returned to the house rubbing his hands together. Mary Jane met him at the door.

"It _is_ winter, you know," she said, gesturing at his light jacket.

"Hey, this is a scarf," he said, tugging the strip of cloth off. "You think my Aunt May would let me out of the house underdressed?"

"You know best," she said. "We baked cookies to celebrate leaving. Great plane food. We saved you some. Do you like chocolate chip?"

"Oh yeah," he said. He looked around. The entryway was modest and unremarkable, and it opened up into a loft-like living room, with a hall leading back to the two bedrooms. The kitchen was off to the side. The place was decorated with an odd mix of posters, some framed and some taped up. The posters displayed nature shots, boy bands, and movie posters. The floor was carpeted, and accented with laundry. An old couch faced the television.

Peter strayed into the living room, captivated by one of the posters. An eagle hung suspended in an empty sky, gazing at distant mountains. He cocked his head to the side.

"Cookie?" Mary Jane said, approaching.

"No, me Peter. You Mary Jane," Peter replied. She sighed, and handed him a chocolate chip cookie anyway. "Oh, thanks. Hey, I was just admiring this poster."

"And here I thought you were looking for secret passages. Yeah, I love that picture. I have flying dreams sometimes, you know, and looking at that poster reminds me of those dreams; to float effortlessly over everything."

"Yeah," he said, looking at her sideways. "Don't forget I have a magic carpet."

"You'd better use it if you need to. Hellraiser is very delicate and I don't want him to be unsupervised for a whole week. Think you're up to the task, Parker?"

"Lead me to this little catmuffin and we'll make friends," Peter said.

She looked to make sure the front door was shut, then she headed for the pantry. "Razer baby, got a new friend for you," she cooed in a voice that made Peter's knees go all wobbly. She opened the door.

A streak of orange slid out past her leg and zipped into a bedroom. She glanced at Peter with a rueful smile. "He's a bit temperamental with new people, but he's got a heart of gold," she said. "Here puss puss puss."

"Allow me," Peter said gallantly.

"We don't let the cat in the bedrooms because he can have an attitude problem, and he knows one sure way to express his displeasure," she said. "Think you can get him out?"

"Oh yeah," Peter shrugged. He walked in to the darkened bedroom, and let his senses unreel. The cat was watching him from under the far side of the bed. While he knew he could hurl the bed up against the wall, snag the cat in a string of web and jerk it through the air to his waiting hand, he suspected Mary Jane would not approve.

He lowered himself to his hands and knees and peered under the bed, his sharp eyes piercing the gloom easily. The cat glowered at the far end, a furry lump of malignancy. "Here puss puss puss," he said in his most disgustingly charming voice. "Razer here been declawed?" he asked as an afterthought.

"Peter!" Mary Jane said sharply. "The practice of declawing is cruel. A well trained cat makes it unnecessary anyway."

"Ever seen a well trained cat?" he muttered under his breath. He knew what to do, but it would not be simple. He saw a dry erase marker that had rolled under the bed some time ago. His forearm began to tingle as he wove adhesive into the web before he spun it out. "I'll have the little darling in a second," he said.

His focus was intense as he sprayed out a low-impact strand that landed smack on the marker. Ever so slowly, he tugged it closer. The cat's eyes lit up, watching the marker. Hellraiser's tail began to lash. He pounced and batted the web. His paw was stuck.

Peter jerked on the strand, quick as his reflexes could manage. Hellraiser got out a quick yelp before Peter had him by the scruff. His hand itched terribly with the chemicals that began to bead on it, but he rubbed at the webbing and it faded like soapsuds.

"Careful, Peter," Mary Jane said. "Razer isn't a stuffed animal, you know."

"I know," he said. He swiftly folded an arm under the dangling cat and turned around. He smiled, tiny lines of strain creasing the corners of his mouth and his forehead as claws sank deep into the flesh of his arms and chest. "Here's the little cupcake."

Mary Jane smiled and reached for the cat. Peter laughed, fast and high. "Let me hang on to him for a bit," he said. "So he'll be staying in the pantry?"

"Oh, yes," she nodded. "His litter needs cleaning once a day, and changing on Wednesday. His food is on the top shelf, just mix one can with some dry in a one to one ratio. He has an automatic waterer, so just make sure that's full. And if he gets a little down because he misses us, his c-a-t-n-i-p is in the jar on the fridge. Okay?"

"Okay," Peter said. "So you got any time before you go?"

"Well," she said with a smile—

A horn blew outside. "Oh shoot. That's my cab to the airport. Sorry, Pete, gotta go."

"Hey, no problem," he said. "Let me help you with your bags."

"I got it," she said, scooping up her carryon on the way out. "Keys on the table, and Pete: thanks so much. You're a hero." She flashed a smile at him, then she was out the door. It clacked shut behind her, and Hellraiser hissed at Peter.

"I wish people would stop calling me a hero," he muttered.


	4. Bait & Switch

**xXx**

"I got him. Corner of 9th and Stuart," Logan murmured.

"Sir, I got him. Corner of 9th and Stuart," the sniper said into his mike.

"Roger, Eagle One. Moving out. Do you have the shot?"

"Too many pedestrians," murmured Logan.

"No sir, too many pedestrians."

"Eagle Two, confirm sighting?"

"Eagle Two, can _not _confirm, repeat, can _not_ confirm."

"Cowboy hat, flannel jacket, whiskers. I see him," Logan muttered.

"Cowboy hat, flannel jacket, whiskers, I see him, sir," the sniper said, sweat beading on his face.

"Plan B, go," the team commander said. Logan bared his teeth. Plan B. He swept the sight of the rifle across the intersection, scanning for her. Wondering what shape she'd be this time.

A meter maid raised a walkie talkie to her mouth; Logan read her lips as he listened. "No sign. Eagle One, no sign. Reconfirm?"

"No need," Logan muttered. "God I love a woman in uniform." He lined the sniper rifle up on the meter maid's left leg and breathed out. His finger contracted with his lungs; when his lungs were empty the gun bucked. The meter maid went flying back as though she'd been hit by a car, her hair snapping loose around her face as her hat flew into the crowd.

Logan rolled back as a bullet cracked into the scope of the rifle. That would be Eagle Two. His sharp hearing heard the explosion of orders through the sniper's radio gear. The sniper lay on the roof, wrists and ankles zip tied. Logan tossed him his hat, then sprinted to the rear of the building as a chopper roared closer. He couldn't help grinning.

Over the back of the building, slamming into the wall of the building next door, sliding down and hitting a window ledge; he balanced for a moment, then snapped his hands into the pane of glass. It exploded inward with the dull metallic thud of his fists. He tugged himself inside, sprinted down the hall. Office building.

Logan dashed to the stairwell as shouts and general alarm spread around the broken window. He hopped over the railing; again, again, then he quietly opened the door and strolled out into the hallway. A cafeteria. Midmorning, so not a lot of traffic. He glanced around, then vaulted the six foot counter and window assembly. He darted into the back, where a cook looked up, startled.

A moment later Logan walked to the back elevator with a chef hat and an apron. Three floors down, and he was in the main kitchen of the building, behind the food court. A back door, and he was out.

A municipal bus was pulling up. He hopped up the steps and gave a handful of quarters to the machine, then worked his way back and slung himself down in a seat, yanking his chef hat off. He watched out the window as the black-clad men sprinted around the side of the building, and he squinted up at the thudding blades of the helicopter as it swooped around the side of the building looking for him.

Ten minutes later he swung off the bus and disappeared into the crowd. He had an appointment to keep.

**xXx**

Peter was strolling towards the front doors of the art building when he hesitated. His eyes and nostrils flared, and he sensed… something. Something familiar. Something that alerted him. He cautiously approached the front doors, and glanced out. Cigar smoke. That was it.

Logan grinned at him, turned, and slowly started crunching down the snowy sidewalk. Peter quickly caught up. "How'd you find me here?" he asked, his tone urgent.

Logan shrugged. "College boy, developer fluid, nearby college with a photography lab, registrar's office, cross-reference Peter. Takes a genius."

"You are a very scary man, Logan. Remind me not to get on your bad side."

"Which brings us to our next point," Logan said. He took a deep drag on his cigar. "I need your help."

"With?"

"I need to get up close and personal with Bryant. That's just what Creed will be waiting for. So I need to get Creed busy somewhere else. Can you help me?"

"What is your plan?"

Logan shrugged. "Make you smell like me, then lead Creed away to somewhere secluded. Restrain him temporarily, and get away. Under no circumstances so much as touch each other."

"How do you think Creed will pick up the scent?"

"He no doubt thinks I'm spoilin ta tangle with him as bad as he wants to take another poke at me."

"He's wrong?"

"I'm not ten years old anymore. More's at stake than my personal dislike of Creed. I grew up, he didn't. Plain as that. He'll be looking to pick up my scent at the park. He missed me there once, but he knows I'll be back for him."

"How does he know that?"

"Sixteen years ago he would have been right," Logan said. "Now here's the tricky part. You got ta get him to chase you, but not see you. Do not under any circumstance mix it up with him. Clear?"  
"Sure. And how do I restrain a monster like that? You do have a plan."

"Yeah, I have a plan, but I don't think much of it. I figure a big trank gun loaded with cyanide would put him down for the count. Wouldn't kill him, but it'd give you at least ten, twenty minutes to get a head start. Point is, soon as he knows he's been tricked he'll head straight for Bryant to intercept me or he'll go after you. And I don't want people killed because they're in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"You ever hit him with cyanide before?"

"Nope," Logan said.

They walked, quiet, for a short time.

"When do you want this done, Logan?" Peter asked.

"Tonight. Now."

"I don't have a lot of cyanide on hand. But I can lead him for a merry chase. Believe me, Logan, I can get his attention and get him to follow me for a while."

"Too dangerous," Logan said, shaking his head. "You frustrate him, he'll start killing innocents until you hold still."

Peter stopped and turned to face Logan. "Trust me. I can handle this guy. Let me do it. You want my help, I'm offering it. But you can't dictate terms to me."

Logan looked him in the eye, then sighed and nodded. "Okay. Don't make me sorry, kid."

Peter smiled. "Wouldn't dare. So. How do I smell like you?"

Logan grinned.

**xXx**

"I don't need to say it, do I?" the woman with a blonde page boy hairstyle said to the man by her hospital bed.

He scowled at her. "Don't get smug."

"Smug?" she said, her elfin features contracted with scorn. "Smug? Bryant, let's not forget _I'm_ the one in the hospital with a shattered leg. Let's not forget I was only there because of _your_ orders. Logan is not to be underestimated. I recommended adapting a site appropriate for confrontation and luring him to it. Your genius team knew he'd try to make contact at the park so you tried to arrange for the ambush there in the open with a hundred ways out."

"We had the situation as bottled up as the police could make it," Bryant said tightly, his Canadian accent bleeding through his composure.

She sat up, eyes flashing. "The _police_ are the _wrong_ _weapon_ against _Logan_," she hissed. "Numbers on our side equal body count on our side. Logan is damn good, if you've forgotten. I haven't. If we are going to catch him, we have to have bait he can't resist in a trap he can't escape." She breathed heavily for a moment. "Where _is_ Lisa, anyway? I thought that was her whole purpose in this escapade. Establish contact and smooth recovery."

"When you're in charge, what you think will matter. As it is, you follow my orders. You aren't team leader on a mission. You are a resource for this, nothing more, and you do as you're told." He stopped, his face flushed. "How long until you can reshape your leg?"  
"I'll be mobile by tonight," she said, staring at him. "By tomorrow, good as new. A fifty caliber slug through the bone of my leg takes time to reconstruct."

Bryant nodded curtly. "I'll make arrangements to move you to our headquarters. It seems your life is out of danger." He turned to go.

"He could have blown my head off," she said softly. He stopped, inclined his head towards her without facing her, then pushed the curtain aside and walked out into the room, out the door, gone.

She leaned back, closed her eyes, and sank her consciousness into her body. She sifted through her delightfully mobile flesh, finding the chips of bone scattered into her leg by the bullet that had left a hole the size of a baseball through her leg. She dissolved the bone, reformed the bone. The pain was intense, but her nerves were steady. Another hour or two of this torture and she'd be able to walk.

Danger.

She snapped back to alertness. Blinked her eyes; they shifted back to a lovely green. She gasped, her pupils contracting.

"Hiya darlin," Logan said. He stood three feet from her, staring at her. He wore a leather jacket, jeans, flannel. His smell washed her in a thousand memories.

"Logan," she said with some difficulty. She attempted a smile.

"Nothin personal," he said, pulling out a cigar and a lighter.

"I know," she nodded. "I'm still alive."

"Headquarters." His eyes did not leave her as he bit off the end of his cigar and spat it at the floor.

Her eyes narrowed. "So that's what this is about. Identify and isolate me, then interrogate me. I push this button and you're trapped." Her finger hovered over the nurse call button.

He shrugged. "Push it then," he said, taking his eyes from her and lighting his cigar.

Her hand left the button. "You don't want to kill me, do you."

"Never did," Logan shrugged, looking up. "What's between me and Creed is between me and Creed. You never wanted to get involved."

She sighed. "If Bryant finds out I told you, I could be severely disciplined."

Logan barked a laugh. "They know better." He shrugged. "Tell me or I'll kill you. Tell em I said that."

They looked deep into each other's eyes, and she looked away. "Waterstreet and Nineteenth," she said softly. "Warehouse, Kybersly and Sons."

"Defenses?"  
"Standard laser grid, nerve center in the second floor in the north east corner. Got any smokes?"

He grinned and pulled out a pack of her favorite cigarettes. Fingered one out, put it between her lips, lit it. She took a drag, leaned back, exhaled through her nose, and narrowly regarded him through the haze of smoke.

"Thank you. Backup system is under the warehouse, along with the armory. He's got thirty agents. They've used this place before, so it's been hardened and it has fiberoptic accesses. They made a cell for you that's underwater with about six inches of breathing space in a six foot cube even you shouldn't be able to cut through."

"Anything else?" Logan asked.

"Automatic miniguns, independent power sources, tasernets, that sort of thing. Come on, Logan, that's more than you need."

He nodded. "True. Take care of yourself, darlin. And stay out of my way."

"One and the same, Logan. One and the same." Her eyes gleamed yellow and slitted through the cigarette smoke. She smiled at him, and he turned. In seconds he was beyond recall.

She took a deep drag on her cigarette, counted to fifteen, and pushed the nurse call button.

**xXx**

Peter stumped down the sidewalk, very unhappy in his cowboy boots that did not quite fit properly. He reeked of cigar smoke and other Logan smells.

He had circled the park area twice, stopping five times to smoke for a while and watch the situation. Then he had felt that would be plenty, so he'd started down the street. First sign of Creed and he could lose the boots, jeans, coat, and hat; pull the hood up on his mesh, and tango with Creed.

Two miles away from the park, his scalp tingled, and his subconscious alarms were triggered. He became alert, listening, intent.

Creak of a fire escape. Stutter in a garbage truck engine two streets over. A slamming door. What was it? What lit up his cautions?

The scrape of claw on brick.

Peter zipped a webline up to the corner of the apartment building he was walking past; the line contracted as he kicked off, and it swung him almost halfway up before he hit the wall. That was plenty of time for him to shuck the boots and jacket, and to pull up the hood. He hit the wall and swarmed up. Slinging over the top, he saw Creed two buildings down. Creed saw him, too; snarled a grin, turned, and ran.

Peter hopped out of his jeans and sprang after Creed. He knew that when he caught him, he'd be able to give Creed his best shots, his heaviest hits. A cold feeling settled over him as he realized he might not be able to kill Creed even if he wanted to.

Then it was all speed and trajectory as he sprang across the rooftops. Creed was fast. He was heavy, but he was strong and he knew this area. He cleared the warehouse roof and landed on the ledge that ran between two roof levels. He stood and loped along the narrow wall; Peter realized the roof probably wasn't strong enough to support Creed's weight.

Creed ran from him in a straight line, so it was speed on speed. Peter could keep up, but he felt a grudging respect for the agility of the vast bulk of his opponent.

Creed dropped three stories and landed in a crouch. He darted to the side as Peter swung down and stuck to the wall. Peter could feel Creed's heartbeat; it thudded wherever it was, into the ground and into the wall under Peter's fingertips. His senses cast about, searching. For the first time, Peter felt fear. Nothing that big should be able to hide.

Creed narrowed his eyes at Peter and smiled a feral snarl. Not Logan, then. Fine. This one had it coming…

**xXx**

Logan crouched on the fire escape having a leisurely smoke, watching the warehouse. It almost looked abandoned. Logan considered the doors, windows (what few there were,) walls, floor, guards. He watched for three hours, through one changing of the guard.

By then he had a plan.

Logan slipped through the shadows and then came up to the building from the side. Normally he'd cause a diversion to see how the defenders reacted, to gauge their response readiness. Tonight he knew that any disturbance at all would put them on full alert specifically for him. He'd have to do this quiet-like. And all the missions he started quiet-like tended to end in a bloodbath.

He had checked the city schematics for the sewer layouts of this street, but he was positive the sewer entrance to this building would be heavily guarded. Still, it would be a handy escape route if necessary. He had considered getting to their hidden satellite dishes and wrecking them, so they'd come and investigate and he could slip in. The plan fizzled; he knew they'd spot that as his handiwork immediately, before they even went out to look. Facilities with budgets like this one didn't have a lot go wrong on accident, so he'd had to think very, very carefully about how to get in.

The laser grid would be tied into the hardening of the building, so if he was going to breach the windows, door, wall, or roof he'd have to be damned careful. The grid wouldn't hurt him, but it would sound the alarm and bring things that would. The vents were designed too small for people, with redundancy systems and air scrubbers.

So he'd watched the back of the building for an hour or so. The cameras focused on the chute, then the chute dumped refuse, then the cameras resumed their scanning.

Logan timed his jump and leaped from the rooftop down three stories to clang into the dumpster. None of the ground sensors could have picked up his approach, and none of the cameras were watching at that moment. There was no perfect way in, but this was as close as he could get, and if they were going to come for him here, they'd just have to come for him.

He waited. He was laying in piles of shredded paper, take out pizza, take out Chinese, food wrappers, and so on. Now to wait for the chute to open again. He relaxed and waited.

**xXx**

Peter dropped to the ground in the alley. "Creed," he said softly and clearly. "Why don't you come out where we can talk." His scalp writhed as though ants were swarming all over it. Everywhere he could smell Creed's musk, feel him breathing, hear his heartbeat; but he was hidden in a way Peter did not know how to hide. Hidden as a predator hides before pouncing on its prey.

In answer, a concrete block whipped out of an overturned dumpster. Peter's body dodged before he even spotted the threat. Instead of hitting him square in the head, it crushed into his turning shoulder, spinning him around twice. His elastic bones compacted, his tendons stretched, his springy flesh screamed; the concrete block spun off, whirling through the air to explode into dust and gravel against the wall. Peter's arm sent sheets of pain through his nerves.. He had never taken a hit like that. Nothing broken. Another block; must have had one in each hand. Peter dropped to the ground on all fours, alert and tense. That missile flew over his head and slammed into a heavy steel door, crushing a six inch deep dent in it as the block scattered with the force of impact. And there stood Creed.

Peter's fear coursed through him with adrenaline. He would have his workout. Too shaken for witty repartee, he cut loose with both spinners and slung web at Creed.

Creed bounced to the side and hurled himself headlong at Peter, his jaws open in a roar that came out no louder than a throbbing growl. His claws hissed through the air as Peter sprang to the side, sticking to the wall, then cartwheeling over Creed and landing behind him.

Peter gave it everything he had; he planted a blow square on Creed's spine. He heard a crunch as his powerful fist sank to the heel of his hand in solid muscle. He felt his flexible finger bones bend under the strain, he felt the power move through him and out of him as his blow thudded home.

Creed spun with a backhand that caught Peter in the head. His skull changed its shape, but it was too flexible to crack. Peter sailed away, dark suns bursting in his head, feeling his brain squeeze against his skull. Concussion. Bad one, too. But he was spinning midair and he slapped against the wall without further harm. Creed was already on top of him. Breath came hard to Peter as he sprang to the wall of the building next to him, then slung web to get out of Creed's reach.

Creed hesitated, watching Peter. Then he smiled, slow and cruel. He leaped at the wall and bounced off of it to clear a fifteen foot fence topped with barbed wire.

Peter clung to the wall, breathing hard and trembling. He was afraid. He was afraid of Creed. Creed was strong, fast, skilled, ferocious, and almost invulnerable to damage.

"What am I," Peter breathed to himself, "his press agent?" He dug deep within and found the resolve.

Peter dropped over the fence and found himself in a junkyard.

"Great," he breathed.


	5. Gripped

**xXx**

Logan sprang up the chute, pushing against the frictionless surface with every ounce of skill he possessed. He managed to get his fingers in the door as it was closing; it coughed, and slid open. He darted through and it closed smoothly. Logan spun around behind a cart; not much of a hiding place. The man in a one-piece coverall returned through the open door at that moment, and inspected the chute. He pushed the button to open it again, looking down the chute with a puzzled expression, then he let it close. He pushed the intercom button by the shutter.

"No blockage. Must have been a hiccup. Nobody here, in any case. I'm heading back to the kitchen, okay?"

"Check, Eckson. Go ahead." The man let up the intercom button and jogged down the stairs.

Logan felt his hand plump out with blood then smooth as his fingers repaired the crushing damage of the doors. He evaded the room's single camera and found himself on the iron walkway over the main warehouse.

The catwalk worked its way around the entire inside, and above it were rafters. On the floor below was the motor pool, including the helipad that could roll out the back over the water and then retract, as well as a few offices. He saw the entry to the lower levels; a staircase and an elevator. What he was looking for was the main office control room, and he saw it across from his current position.

The rafters tempted him, but he knew better than to think they were undefended. Probably had an electric current running through them that was programmed to triple its output if its current was disrupted.

Logan poked his head over the side of the walkway and saw the electric eyes built underneath with a five foot range. So he'd be detected if he tried to travel under the walk. He pulled back to the shadow and thought for a minute. This wasn't the toughest security he'd ever beat, but he had never had to be completely undetected and without assistance before either. Sure, one or the other, but not both.

His forearms itched; his claws were subtly shifting in his flesh, making small cuts. His incredible healing smoothed away the blood pockets as fast as they formed, but Logan was sweating. He squinted at the command tower, his sniffer working overtime.

Through one of the small windows, he saw Lisa bend over a monitor, her face serious. He remembered why he was here. The rest of it went away, and he dropped silently to the floor twenty feet below.

**xXx**

Peter felt as though he was surrounded by tendrils of senses as he cautiously edged forward. He probed every shadow, every nook before he advanced. He had no sense of time, only of intense scrutiny. He did not want to catch another concrete block.

Movement—

Peter lowered his center of gravity and lashed out with his webs, catching the engine block just after Creed hurled it. Springing to the side, Peter latched onto the earth with his feet, exerting his full adhesive talent. The tethered engine block roared through the air just a foot away from Peter's chest. Peter leaned back, hauling on the line with all his strength.

He was strong. He was _really _strong. And he had never before pushed to find the limits of that strength. Now for it—

The block hit the end of its trajectory, still tethered; it swung around. Peter's arms snapped into sharp relief with the strain, but he held, and so did the web. The block slashed around in an arc, and Peter let it go along the way it had come. Creed ducked, startled; the block caromed off of the metal wall of a dump truck, crashing and clattering away.

Creed stood to his impressively towering height. "Nice move. So Logan aint comin."

"He got a better offer to be on the cover of Feral Quarterly; leopard skin thong and the whole nine yards."

Creed looked up and sniffed. "Guess I better get on with killin you so I can get back to work. Nice trick. I figured you'd have some backup."

"Hey, I _am_ the cavalry," Peter said boldly.

"Giddyap," Creed growled. He flashed a savage grin, then leaped.

Peter was ready this time. He snapped a wad of web out, and his aim was excellent. The wad smacked into Creed's face, over his nose and eyes. Peter slid to the side, spun out another filament that slapped into Creed's wrist. Before the behemoth hit the ground, Peter sprang over his back and pulled on the filament with all his might. Creed was yanked around so he smashed to the ground on his shoulderblades. Peter was beyond stopping now. His wrist spat out the strongest web he could make, plastering across Creed's ankle and pinning his leg to the ground.

Creed roared, and flexed his mighty muscles. The web ripped. Creed did a kip up that thudded onto the ground. He snarled as he tore a handful of web off his face. His eyes were glacial, cruel. He wasn't warmed up yet.

Peter was moving. Filaments hissed from his forearms as he sprang to the side, then around, surrounding Creed in sticky strands without hitting him directly. Creed picked up a fender and stood, slitted eyes estimating Peter's movements. Quick as a flash, he drew back his arm to throw.

A sticky blob of web slapped across the fender and the heel of his hand, but there was no time to correct; he stumbled forward as the force of the throw did not get free. Peter sprang through the web and landed on the fender, the entire force of his leap and his inhuman strength coiled in his arm.

He let his fist fly; his punch landed square on Creed's broad forehead. Peter felt the bones in his hand buckle, bending like rubber under the force of a blow that would shatter a normal man's hand. Unnatural force snapped loose into Creed's head; the monster staggered back, startled, as Peter bounded off the fender and landed behind him on the other side of a filament. Creed was stunned; astonished by the force the small man could command. As his cracked skull and spine knitted, he slowly turned; the world was still rocking a bit.

Web slapped into his ankle, and he felt himself tugged off balance. He leaped before he fell, the force of the hop carrying him through two filaments. Then Peter was on the other side of him, and he felt web slop across his face again. He growled, deep in his chest. This time he didn't bother to scrape it off. Webbing snagged around his clenched fist, keeping his hand shut. Peter leaped and rolled and bounced all around the web he was weaving around Creed.

Creed's growl deepened and broadened, and he shoved his way through the filaments. Peter was ahead of him, spraying web across his path. Now Creed was draped in the sticky fabrics. Even where he had torn free, the sticky sheets and ropes fluttered along after him. It was slowing him down.

Then Peter stood still, in the middle, waiting. Creed stood to his full height and glared at him.

Peter was trembling. Creed could smell his fear. But Peter was not backing down. Creed narrowed his eyes and smiled. Good. Very good.

Then Peter leaped forward. He came in high, twisting around Creed's strike in midair. He landed with all four limbs on Creed's chest, packing a startling wallop. He was clear, and he circled around and came in low, lashing out with his heel, crushing into the tender flesh behind Creed's knee. Creed let out a shout, but Peter was airborne, slashing both palms into Creed's ears; eardrums ruptured with the pressure change.

Creed spun with a slash, but Peter was already gone. He was breathing fast, but the fear was galvanized into pure fuel for his speed now. He popped up in the air and drove a knuckle deep into Creed's solar plexus; air left the giant in a whoosh. Peter used his downward momentum to drive his fist into the muscles above Creed's knee; Creed's leg went numb.

Peter's senses screamed in overdrive. He felt the pulse of the vein in Creed's thigh, and he buried his thumb in it. Then he rolled back, seeing the disruption of blood in the giant's body from the abuse it was taking. He was doing it! He was taking on Creed!

Peter went airborne again; there is no gravity, he thought. There is no pain. There is only me, and lightning for blood, and this is living.

He landed with a scything kick that caught Creed in the Achilles tendon, followed by an uppercut that rocked him back upright. A blow to the tricep; the throat; the sternum; the bridge of the nose; the left eye; right canine; left temple; then Peter was sailing back through the air away from Creed before the clumsy swing fought back.

He lashed in again, forearms screaming with the abuse; more web, more _web_! He snagged Creed's heel, already deep in webbing, and yanked as he jump-kicked him in the opposite shoulder. Creed crashed down. Peter folded his legs and dropped, his knees sinking into Creed's abdomen; he used the rebound to land on his feet and snap another line of web, and another, gluing Creed's claws into bluntness.

Creed struggled to his knees, breathing heavily, blood pouring from his face. Peter froze twenty feet away, poised to renew the assault, blood racing with unbearable speed. He had done it. Fought Creed to a standstill. Take _that_, Logan.

Creed watched him out of his good eye. "Not bad, kid," he said. "I felt that last one." He patted his abdomen with his sticky mittened hand.

"Only too glad to be of service," Peter said.

"Let's get started," Creed growled, rising to his feet.

Peter's heart stopped for a moment. No. He crouched. He had knocked Creed down once. Time for an encore. He darted in.

So _fast_.

He snapped a good hit across Creed's jutting elbow, ducked, and came up with a solid gut punch. Creed grunted. Peter spun around him and landed on the other side, web zipping out—

But Creed was already swinging, as though he had _anticipated_ Peter's move; his vast fist in its sticky padding thudded into Peter's torso.

Peter was airborne, then he smashed into a pile of crushed cars. They groaned and tilted; Peter sprang free before they tumbled down. But Creed was there again. A flattened car was a difficult thing to dodge, and Creed swung it like a pro. Peter zipped through the air again, silent artillery exploding before his eyes. His body spun itself and snapped onto the pile of crushed cars instinctively, and pushed him clear before Creed's club became a missile. The whole stack came tearing down, and Peter stumbled as Creed bounded in.

Creed swung; Peter mashed a punch into Creed's wrist, deadening his arm. Creed snatched at him, but Peter ducked and kicked at his feet. The huge man swung around without falling, and Peter was sailing back through the air. Peter clung to the side of the wrecking crane, breathing heavily as he could, watching Creed.

The feral giant's eyes did not leave Peter as he sank his fangs into the sticky webbing around his claws. He pulled it loose, and flexed his hand. He spat the web out, leaving a trailing fu man chu that shifted with the wind, hanging from his face. As he flexed his hand, bones popped inside.

A moment too late Peter realized he was being predictable as he snapped webbing out at those fearsome claws. Creed was moving, spinning, catching the web on his ribs as he whirled. Peter was yanked off balance, surprised, and the coiling web sent him flying at Creed.

Creed jabbed. Peter's world popped. He was sailing back with the force of the monster's blow. But he didn't get far. Creed snatched at his leg.

Creed got a grip.

**xXx**

The door swung shut behind the soldier. "Two coffees, black," the soldier said. Lisa absently took hers, and Bryant reached for his. He took a sip and made a face. "Coffee tastes like crap," he muttered. "Six million dollar facility and the coffee tastes like crap."

"Sorry, sir," the soldier said. Then there was a meaty metallic thud, and he flew through the air to crash against the wall and slide insensibly to the floor.

The other two soldiers in the room spun, but one saw only a blur of motion before his rifle was jerked from his hands. Logan spun, turning his back on the soldier, and flung the rifle at the other. As his target snapped the safety off and brought up his gun, the flying rifle caught him square in the teeth. He slammed back against the wall and toppled to the floor. Logan's elbow snapped back and caught the disarmed soldier in the chest. Something cracked, and Logan's victim flew back, clawing at the air and gurgling. Logan crouched before Lisa and Bryant, claws still sheathed, no less menacing for that.

Bryant raised an eyebrow. "The garbage chute?" he asked cordially.

Logan stood to his full height. "I'll get to you in a minute. Don't be in a rush to get my attention." He looked at Lisa. "You got somethin to tell me?"

"Logan," she said, sounding a bit lost. "How? I mean, this place…"

"Less about me," he growled. "More about you. Tell me what's going on. Now."

"Yes, tell him," Bryant said. He sipped his coffee and made a face.

"Logan," she began, "I was schooling in Boston. Then one weekend I got sick. Real sick."

He said nothing. She went on.

"I went to the emergency room, and they did some blood tests. I don't know what kind of red flag it popped up with the government, but they sent the FBI to talk to me. Turns out I have a rare disease called Tymaz Nine."

Logan's face darkened into a scowl. "That aint no disease, darlin. Tymaz Nine is a biological weapon."

"I know," she nodded. "The FBI referred me to the specialists at the Project. They ran…tests," she said, hesitating. "Logan, they think they can save me. Tymaz Nine has been activated in my bloodstream. I'll be strangled by my blood until, a day or two from now, I'll finally keel over and drown in my own body."

"I know about Tymaz Nine," he said. "But you can't have it. Only the KGB uses it, and only for internal controls in the former Soviet Republic."

"Oh, she has it alright," Bryant said. "You may not have enjoyed your work with the Project, but you know we don't miss a trick when it comes to biological weapons and controls."

Logan didn't look at him. "One more word and you'll be squealing while your guts spill over your shoes. I said shut up, Bryant. No more warnings."

Bryant turned a little green and took a quick sip of coffee.

"They said that you have… regeneration," Lisa said, "a kind of physiology that can reject poisons and shrug off biological controls. They thought that you might have the secret to finding the cure." She abruptly stopped talking, staring at Logan.

He looked straight into her eyes, his face pale. "You came here ta lure me into their trap to squeeze the blood out of me ta find a cure." His voice was oddly final.

"I _raised_ you, darlin," he said, a deep pain in his soft voice. "You didn't even ask me."

She drew in a breath and threw her head back, looking down at him. "They told me about you, Logan. They told me they found you in the snow, no more than an animal. They told me that everything I knew about you was a lie, something they put over your true nature so you would be more controllable. They told me—"

"Enough," Logan said. "That's enough. You listened to them after a weekend in the emergency room, and forgot everythin you learned growin up under my roof, everythin you saw with your own two eyes." He nodded. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm just an animal. Maybe I'm no better than a lab experiment. But, darlin," he said, "now you'll never know. You never asked me. So now…" he shrugged. "Now you'll never know how much I love you."

"You still haven't agreed," Bryant pointed out.

Logan looked at him. "You think I waltzed in here plannin to waltz back out? This was a one-way ticket to begin with, Bryant. All I wanted," he said, slowly turning his eyes back to Lisa, "was an answer. I guess I have it."

She said nothing.

"Take me," Logan said. "Do what you need to do," he added in a low voice. "If I have the cure, I want her to have it. Then let me go."

"Sure," Bryant said. "Then let you go."

They made eye contact, and understood each other quite well.

Then the soldiers came. Logan went quietly.

Bryant watched through the window until Logan was out of sight. "You can come out now," he said. The concealed door in the wall slid open, and Lisa stepped out, trembling. She looked at herself. "Incredible," she said.

"Indeed," the other Lisa agreed, slumping into a chair and rubbing at her leg. "You are very pretty, you know that?"

"Th-thank you," Lisa said. The Lisa in the chair sighed, and her features blurred and shifted; her skin's smell shifted. She was a blonde meter maid. She rubbed her leg more gently, wincing.

"How's the wound?" Bryant said.

"Hurts like a bitch," she muttered.

"I think you gave as good as you got," Bryant smiled. "Did you see the look on his face?"

"And you thought he was here to kill everyone," the blonde said as her eyes flared. "I told you. Irresistible bait in an inescapable trap. Next time listen to me in the first place."

"You forget yourself," Bryant said absently.

Her eyes narrowed. "I never forget myself," she said. "Now you remember that I am not a soldier or an intelligence officer. I'm a spy. The best you have. I am a secret agent, not a lackey. Forget that at your own risk, Bryant."  
He turned and looked down at her wordlessly for a moment. Then he looked back out the window. "I have not forgotten anything. See to it that you stay as sharp. There's no hole in _my_ leg, after all. If it were not for your indiscretion at the hospital, we could have avoided this whole encounter."

"And you'd be chasing Logan and losing troops until _next _Christmas," she shot back.

He turned to Lisa. "You are dismissed," he said. She looked from one to the other, then rapidly left the room. Bryant turned back to the woman on the chair.

"Listen to me very carefully," he said, his voice low. "You stand against me and I'll make an example of you. You don't know what you risk."

Her eyes narrowed. "Like you made an example of Creed? You got promoted because you got too sloppy in the field, Bryant. Don't get in the way of the professionals or you just get people _shot._"

"Is that a threat?" he asked, his voice menacing.

"That depends," she replied, her eyes narrow, slitted, catlike, golden.

"You are on suspension," he said slowly. "You will be inducted into the next intelligence training course at the Camp, off duty for six months."

"You son of a bitch," she said softly. "You know not what you do."

"Any more insubordination out of _you_," he said, "and you'll find yourself back where you started. This audience is over." He turned his back and walked out of the room. She sat and stared at the window, not seeing it, turning things over in her mind. She briefly wondered where Creed was hiding.


	6. Boxed In

**xXx**

Peter screamed as Creed dug his thumb into the muscles in the back of his knee. He abruptly stopped screaming as Creed crushed a blow into his gut. Creed flung him to the ground, caught him on the rebound, and stomped on his ankle and foot. Peter wheezed a gasp as snapping bone reverberated through his body. Then his mind shut down and his body took over.

Fists zipped around and snapped into the pressure points in Creed's wrist; the big man let go. The spider flung itself at the wall and swung up with its three good limbs.

Creed swore, and flung a tire iron. The spider scrabbled to the side as the iron missile buried one of its arms in the crushed car he clung to. Creed threw a jack as the spider sprang free, and it smashed into his back, spinning him so he fell out of sight. Creed leaped up the pile of cars, but by the time he could see over, the spider was gone.

"We'll meet again," Creed muttered. "Hope you learned your lesson." He turned, dropped from the stack, and limped away down the corridors of mangled metal. He stopped, and thought a moment. Then he started into a loping run.

Peter came back to himself, feeling blood ooze and drop from his back. He saw he was stuck to the underside of a car chassis, in a loose stack of flattened cars. He crawled free, and realized he couldn't use his right leg. His back was a seething, throbbing mass of agony. He couldn't see out of his left eye. Ribs broken. Internal bleeding. And he couldn't go to a doctor. Damn.

He stumbled to the fence, crawled over. He was lost for some time, drifting in and out of coherence. Finally he found the alley where he had begun. He stripped off his mesh and left its shredded remains on the ground. It would be dissolved in an hour. He dragged his clothes on, feeling them stick to the blood on his skin. He started home, but when he was almost there he lost his balance and fell, rolling down two flights of stairs. He lay at the bottom, more startled than anything else.

He heard footsteps approaching. A worried man bent over him. "You okay, kid?" he said.

"Fine," Peter muttered. "Das my house." He pointed to his house, blessedly close.

"Hey, I better call an ambulance," the man said, looking at the blood staining Peter's clothes.

"Nah, 'm fine. Soccer player, usta it."

"Whatever you say. Need a hand?"

"Yeah," Peter said. "Thad be good."

They made it to the front door. "Thanks," Peter said with a smile. Then he opened the door and stumbled in.

Upstairs, quick. "Peter, is that you?" came a querulous voice. "Are you alright?"

"Just a minute," he said in his best impression of a normal voice. "I'll be okay."

Then he shucked his clothes and was leaning against the shower wall, a throbbing mass of pain. He stuck himself to the wall with one hand, so he wouldn't fall.

He checked himself out. Deep laceration in the back of his knee, to the bone. Torn tendon. Crushed foot bones, ankle, broken shin. Deep tears and internal bleeding in his back. Broken ribs and maybe ruptured organs in his torso. Other bruises and cuts. Emptied web sacs in his arms.

"Now _that_," he said, "was a workout."

**xXx**

Creed crouched and watched the headquarters from across the street. Skeleton crew. Somewhat relaxed security. No sign of elite troops.

Which meant they had Logan and they were out of town. Damn. He'd missed the show.

He stood deliberately. So they were gone. He knew where they went. He wouldn't be far behind.

This wasn't over.

He disappeared into the city, through the city, out into the wild.

It would be over when he _said_ it was over.

Not long now.

**January 2, 2002**

He lay on the bed, burning with fever, rolling. Aunt May came in and sat by his side.

"Peter," she said softly. "I've brought you some more chicken soup."

"Thanks," he said. "It's so cold in here."

"Peter, I think it's time to call the doctor."

"I'm fine," he said, propping himself up on one elbow. "Really. Just need a little more rest."

She looked at him uncertainly, her peering eyes worried. "Well, we'll give it another day."

"How long has it been?" he asked, but he didn't hear her answer. He lay back down, feeling the spider within him furiously knitting his tendons, stitching him shut, sealing him back together, teasing his bones back into place. He surrendered to the process; the fever of activity, not of disease. Peter was weak, and the spider was stronger. He was healing.

Some time later there was a gentle knock on the door.

"You have a guest, Peter," Aunt May said. He glanced over at the door, his eyes flashing in the dimness.

"Thank you, Aunt May," came a purr. Peter sort of grinned.

"Mary Jane," he said. "Hi."

"I'll leave you two alone," Aunt May said with a smile. She shut the door.

"Peter Parker," Mary Jane said, her voice low and furious. "You abandoned the _cat._"

"Oh no," he burbled, pulling the covers over his head. "Oh no, Mary Jane, I'm so sorry." He wanted to die. He wanted to give Creed another chance. This was going to hurt even more than the flying jack had.

"I can't believe it," she said.

"Fell down the steps," he muttered. He pulled the blanket back, and she saw his bruised face. "Two flights, on ice. Sprained my ankle, bruised some ribs. I totally forgot about 'Razer. I'm so sorry. I'm scum."

She leaned forward and touched his forehead. "You're burning up!"

"Fever," he muttered, falling back. His eyes glittered. The spider sized her up, and liked what it saw.

"Oh," Mary Jane said. "Oh, Peter, I'm sorry. I didn't realize what shape you were in. Have you been to the hospital?"

"No insurance," he muttered.

"Peter!" she said, and her anger melted. "Okay, okay, I'll forgive you this once. On one condition."

"Name it," he grunted.

"You have to take me out to dinner."  
"Well," he managed, "Okay."

She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "Poor Peter," she said. "Get better soon, okay?"

"Hoo boy," he faltered. "Sure thing."

She left, and was making small talk with Aunt May in the hallway. Peter grinned until he thought his face would burst. "Will you go out to dinner with me?" he whispered, and he closed his eyes. His forehead creased and his grin became wry. "I wonder what day it is."

**January 3, 2002**

Bryant watched the small monitor. The screen showed Logan pacing back and forth in his cell. "If he had a tail," Bryant said softly, "he'd be lashing it."

"He's working things through," the security officer said. "Look at him. He's thinking it over. He's making decisions."

"Perhaps making a single decision," Bryant nodded.

"I don't like it," the doctor next to Bryant muttered, shaking his head. "This dishonesty is going to get you in trouble."

"Us, Doctor Banner," Bryant said without turning. "Get _us_ in trouble. No, I'm afraid it's the only way. Some of the truth is always better than all of the truth, when dealing with weak minds like Logan. I've told him we are making some progress on the serum to heal Lisa Sendry. That is true."

"It would be more true if you gave us more time to work on it," Banner said. "As long as you've got us working on the details of the bonding trace patterns and algorithmic fusing probabilities, we haven't got much time for the development of—"

"Banner," Bryant interrupted. "Breathe. Everything will be fine. We have the situation under control. We will continue to have the situation under control. And unless you've forgotten, you answer to me. This frees you from the burden of decision making. Now go and run the colloidal adhesion tests and see what you can work out. Officer, show me Ms. Sendry."

The security officer pulled up a screen that showed a darkened room. The light enhancement systems of the camera showed it in a clearly visible twilight. A blonde was sleeping uneasily, tangled in her blankets. Bryant watched her. "Looks like she's not resting easy here. Reduce the oxygen ratio in her room."

The security officer made the adjustment. In less than a minute she was sleeping deeply. Bryant smiled.

"The key," he murmured to himself. "We crack the secret of Tymaz Nine, get an antidote, and we'll have the best rebels of the former Soviet Republic willing to do anything for us. If anyone appreciates the scientific breakthroughs that could lead to, it would be you, Dr. Banner." He looked back at Logan, pacing in his room.

"We don't have Creed or Mystique here," Banner said quietly. "If Logan gets loose—"

"That's _enough_, Doctor," Bryant said in a dangerously quiet voice. His eyes narrowed.

Banner spun on his heel and left the observation room. Bryant turned back to the screens.

"Get some sleep while you can," he said to Logan's picture. "We resume testing in the morning." He smiled to himself, and left.

**xXx**

Logan growled deep in his throat. Knife-like syringe adaptations had been rammed into his back, and he lay face-down on the slab. Bryant's voice came through.

"Logan; push up, hard as you can."

Logan gritted his teeth, thought of Lisa, and tried to do a pushup. The bars with the bladed syringes were weighted, sinking into the meat of his back. He rose against them, as hard as he could; the blades slid deeper into his flesh, and he felt a scream welling up within him as he pushed, harder, harder; the bars creaked up as his arms straightened, then he was up.

"Good, that will do," Bryant said. Logan lowered himself back down to the slab. He felt the thin draw of the syringes.

Torture.

Just like he remembered, but without the shackles.

It was getting harder and harder to think of Lisa. Her cold eyes at their last encounter kept getting in the way. That, and the pain.

"That will do for today," came a different voice over the speaker. Logan felt the bladed syringes slide up out of his back, and already the slits began to seal. He rolled off the slab; lots of pain, less physical damage. So far.

The door opened, and Logan walked through it. He climbed into the single piece jumpsuit he was obliged to wear while he was here. They had also left a meal out for him. He sniffed it; microwave dinners looked luscious compared to the soy wad on his tray. He ate quickly and without relish, then the door on the other side opened and he walked to the hallway, to his room. The door opened to his quarters, and he trudged through. Might as well be a cell.

The door slid shut behind him, and his eyes narrowed as he sniffed the air. A quick look showed him that the room camera had been adjusted; a small box the size of a pack of cigarettes was next to it, with a wire running into the camera's circuits. That and the whiff of brimstone told him everything he needed to know.

"Kurt," he said to the shadow in the corner. "Never thought I'd see you again."

"Hello, Logan," Kurt replied. "I never thought I would find you here again."

Logan sat on the bed. "I'll be damned. Why did you come back?"

Kurt stepped out of the dark corner into the dim light of the room. His eyes had a soft yellow glow, and his angular face was quite handsome, in spite of its velvety coat of midnight blue fur. His wild dark hair was the same color as his face, and when he smiled his too-white teeth had points. He was shrouded in a dark outfit, the cut of the cloth difficult to make out in shadow. "I came looking for you," he said softly.

Logan waited.

"You remember the last time I came," Kurt said, his Romany-German lilt exotic and hypnotizing. Logan nodded. "You remember when we were leaving, we were captured while in subspace." Logan nodded again. "You remember what happened next." Logan's face darkened. "He's back."

"Back?" Logan said. "Is that possible? I cut his flamin head off!"

Kurt shrugged. "Then, headless, he retreated to a deeper realm where he was _not _dead."

Logan hesitated. "I'd go with you in a heartbeat, you know that," he started.

"But," Kurt said.

"The only reason I'm back here is that the girl got some disease, and they think I'm the only cure."

Kurt watched him silently for a moment. "You believe them."

Logan sighed. "They've been torturing me, like they did when I was here before. But I've been takin it, because if it'll fix what's wrong with her, it's worth it. I knew when I came here that they'd do some pokin around to try to reconstruct how they made me. Now it's been a month and I think they're just using her to keep me here, like they don't care about her at all."

"Still Bryant?" Kurt asked.

Logan looked at him sharply. "I won't believe your contacts don't keep you informed."

Kurt smiled. "Forgive my indulgence."

Logan looked at the floor. "The doc in charge of the experiments is Banner. He don't like Bryant, so I figure he might be okay. But he'll do as he's told. Aint gonna be long before they start strippin me to the bone to see what my healing does about it. After that they won't let me escape. I'll bet my eyeteeth they start tryin to find out how much of me has to get cut out before the healing factor gives up. They'll experiment me to death, Kurt."

They were silent for a brief time.

"You would die for her?" Kurt asked finally.

"I would," Logan said. "In a heartbeat."

"But," Kurt said.

"But I don't know that it'll do any good. They don't care about her, Kurt."

"Then leave," Kurt shrugged.

"If I do that, everything I've done to get here is undone. To promise to do everything you can then leave when things get awkward is goin back on your word, goin back on your honor."

"Bryant is a dog," Kurt said. "These people have no honor."

"I do," Logan replied softly. "Livin without honor is worse than dyin."

There was another silence.

"Well," Kurt sighed, "It looks like you have some decision-making to do."

Logan looked at him, pleading. "I want to help you, Kurt. I ran from this place for so long I forgot how to live without runnin. I can't go back to that. But I don't know that I can get out of here on my own."

Kurt looked deep into his eyes. "I can evade the security systems here for twelve hours."

"I'll see you in twelve hours," Logan said solemnly. "Then you'll have an answer."

Kurt nodded. He sprang up to the ceiling and reached into a small gap in the light fixture. He removed a disc the size of a quarter, and the lighting flared back up. He dropped and touched the door pad; it opened smoothly. One last glance at Logan: "Take care, my friend." Then he pulled the camera bypass free and slipped out into the corridor. The door slid shut behind him, and Logan sat on the bunk.

"Take care," he murmured.

**xXx**

"What is it," Bryant snapped, pausing in his undressing.

"The experiment wishes to see you, sir," came the security officer's voice.

"Patch him through," he muttered. "And call him Logan."

Bryant switched on the console in his quarters and looked at Logan's image. "Trouble sleeping?"

"That aint it," Logan drawled. "How come I'm quarantined? If anybody here's healthy, it's me."  
"We've been over this," Bryant said patiently.

"Yeah, you told me that's the way you wanted it," Logan said. "That's no answer."

"I don't want you to lose your focus."

"No mental tests in the battery, Bryant," Logan said. "Just torture, like old times. I need to see Lisa. I know she's here somewhere."

"Do you have doubts?" Bryant asked.

"No doubts," Logan said, shaking his mane. "I just want to see her. Keep her in mind while I'm getting speared in the back."

"I'll see what I can do," Bryant said.

"No," Logan retorted. "You run this show. Just say I can see her and I'll let you get your beauty sleep."

"I'll let you know in the morning." Bryant moved to turn off the terminal when Logan gripped the camera he was talking into.

"Bryant," he growled. "Don't put me off. I've sacrificed a lot to come here."

"Yes, but what's the rush?" Bryant smiled. "You have time on your hands. Get some sleep." He shut off the connection, smiled to himself, and went to bed. Logan wasn't going anywhere.


	7. Touch of Evil

**xXx**

Banner looked up as the door to the lab opened. Lisa. He looked back at his work. On one monitor it showed the taping of the footage from earlier in the day, and next to it were six screens with readouts on different functions. Behind him the centrifuge spun quietly to itself.

"What's going on?" Lisa asked casually. "I brought you some coffee. Black, two lumps of sugar on the side."

"You've been here too long," Banner smiled ruefully, not taking his eyes from his work. "Thank you, Ms. Sendry."

She looked over his shoulder. He glanced at her, and at the screen. "You probably shouldn't watch that," he said.

"Why not?" she asked, unable to take her eyes from the footage.

Three surgical drills on mechanical arms lowered to where Logan lay. They punched through his flesh into the gaps in his adamantium spine, and he jerked as his spinal cord was severed in three places.

"Testing the regeneration of spinal column cells, his ability to regain limb control," Banner said quickly. He moved to snap the monitor off.

"Don't," she said, moving a hand to restrain him. Her eyes were fascinated. "I couldn't wrap my mind around the idea that he could heal so fast." She watched. The drills twisted. Then she heard the tinny recording of Bryant's voice.

"Say 'alpha' when you feel pain anywhere but your spine," Bryant's voice said. A blowtorch popped on and started searing off his toes. This went on for ten seconds, and she could see the glittering purified adamantium of the bones of his toes. The flames played across the soles of his feet. It was less than a minute before she heard the hoarse echo of "Alpha" from the prone form; several holes in the seared flesh showed gleaming steely bone.

"Is that metal?" she asked, awed. "Does he have metal in his body?"

"Don't worry about that," Banner said quickly, turning the monitor off.

"This helps me with the cure?" she asked, a peculiar hungry expression on her face.

"Yes," Banner said shortly. "Shouldn't you be sleeping? I can give you some medication if that would help."

"I do not want to be drugged," she said sharply. She relaxed. "Doctor Banner, you had ethics training as part of your schooling, right?"

"Yes," he said.

She sat down on a stool next to him. "What is evil?" she asked.

He sighed. "Evil is to take pleasure in the pain and ruin of others, I suppose. There are a lot of definitions for evil."

"But really only one taste," she said, looking right into his eyes. "I'm afraid, doctor."

He reached to put a reassuring hand on her arm, then hesitated. "We _will_ find a cure for you," he said.

"You will find a cure for Tymaz Nine," she corrected. She shivered. "I'm not afraid of that."

"Are you afraid of Bryant?"

"No," she said. "Only of what he showed me."

Banner was silent. "Come with me to my office," he said. She rose to follow. He picked up his coffee and headed for his office in the back.

"I need to recalibrate some of my equipment," he said. "It's a night-time duty. Gotta shut off the main programs and let the diagnostics take over the primary power grids in here." He flipped a few switches, then typed fluidly and easily on the keyboard. The lights dimmed to a faint red backup light, and the massive computers began to run tests and checks.

"No cameras?" she said with a wry smile.

"Or microphones."

She sighed. "Bryant told me that Logan was an animal they found in the snow. Worked his way through government agencies in Canada, and they didn't know what to make of him. The Project got wind of him and snapped him up. They took the animal and inlaid a veneer of civility."

She thought that over, then looked Banner in the eye. "Bryant said that when Logan got free, he took me from my family and set up an apartment to satisfy the nesting and paternal instincts of the animal in him. That he used the veneer the Project gave him to say I was his daughter and get me into school and buy me clothes and so forth. Bryant found out Logan stole a lot of money and set up an account in the Cayman islands, and we were living off the interest." She hesitated. Banner sipped his coffee and said nothing.

She looked at him, and her eyes were haunted. "All through when I was a child I wrestled with impulses, Doctor. Impulses that led me to do things…" she gathered her nerve. "When I was ten I tortured a cat to death. At an even younger age, I would go down to the basement of our apartment building, where the janitor left big sticky pads that the rats would get stuck on. I would watch them struggle and squeal. I would watch them for hours as they slowly died. One time I took a cat down to fight with the trapped rats." She looked away. "Normal children don't do this."

Banner nodded. "Go on."

She sized him up, gauged his reaction. She nodded. "I told Bryant about this. He said it was a natural reaction to Logan's inhumanity in raising me. He told me I'd be able to reclaim life among people if I symbolically exorcised Logan from my life and allowed the Project to manufacture a cure from his life force. Bryant told me Logan wouldn't be harmed overmuch, and then he would be put in a high-tech zoo sort of complex, safe to live out his days. I _wanted _to believe him."

"But you can't." Banner sipped his coffee.

"I've been frank with you, Doctor," Lisa said. "Be equally frank with me. Logan won't survive this, will he."

"No."

"The Project is looking for more than a cure for me, aren't they."

Banner's eyes answered the question for her.

"I knew that," she said softly. "From the moment Bryant brought it up, I knew it in my heart. And something in me _liked_ the idea." She shuddered. "It's like I'm two people. I'm Logan's daughter, and I'm this other thing, this other person; when I shot him to end his fight with Creed, something in me bloomed. The stricken look on his face; he watched me pull the trigger. That hurt him more than the gun did, more than Creed did. And that fed something inside me." She took a deep breath. "Something in me is evil, Doctor, whether I like it or not. Animals aren't evil. I know I'm not Logan's daughter, and I won't believe he tainted me, much as Bryant wants me to. But Logan won't tell me where I come from."

Banner said nothing.

She blinked. "When Mystique took my shape, it was as if I had finally polarized into two different people. I saw the coldness in my own eyes, and I realized she was copying _me_, that _I_ looked like that. Mystique helped me see who I really am, or who part of me wants me to become."

"You have a long life ahead of you," Banner said. "You're still young. You may have to fight this for the rest of your life. But it's worth it." He took a deep breath. "Everybody has something they're willing to trade their soul for. I don't know what to tell you about your history, or what could have gone wrong that you have this evil side. I will say this, though. Don't give up. Stay as human as you can. Don't trade your soul to escape the conflict." He chuckled grimly. "If you ever do, though, you'll be snapped up as an agent for Bryant."

"What would you trade _your_ soul for, Doctor?" she asked him.

"What _did_ I trade my soul for," he corrected. He looked at her with oddly empty eyes. "Let's just say I gave my all to science and leave it at that."

She nodded. "Looks like I need to have a talk with Logan."

"To find out where you came from?"

She nodded. "It's time I knew." She left the small office.

"Before it's too late," Banner said, almost too softly for her to hear.

**January 4, 2002**

Two hours to get an audience with Bryant. Nine hours for Bryant's beauty sleep and the visitation request to go through. Half an hour to get the logistics handled. Logan would have less than fifteen minutes to work out what he needed to work out with Lisa.

Part of him knew it wouldn't take that long.

Logan heard the subaudial static, and he rolled off his bunk to look for its source. He picked up the tiny comm that was hidden under his bed. It was the size of a pencil eraser. He put it against the back of his head as he lay back down on the bunk.

"Logan," the voice resonated through his skull. "I've seen the experiment logs. Tomorrow they plan to cut your finger off to see if your body can regenerate normal bone. You're running out of time."

"I see Lisa in half an hour," Logan growled. "Let me do that and I'll go with you. They have all the data and samples they need."

"Glad to hear it, my friend," came the odd buzz of Kurt's voice. The communication ended. Logan let out a breath he didn't remember holding.

**xXx**

Logan sat at the long table in what looked like a meeting room. He waited. The door opened, and Lisa came in. He stood, and smiled at her. He opened his arms.

She hesitated, then she gave him a quick hug and stepped away. He sat down, his face troubled.

"How they been treatin you, darlin?" he asked.

"Can't complain," she said, managing a smile.

"I don't know how else to say it," he muttered. "I'm leavin. Bryant may be your best hope, but he's nothin but trouble for me. They have enough samples to work with, and if I stay here any longer they'll kill me."

"Are you just going to walk out the front door?" she asked.

"Nope," he said. "You gonna be okay?"

"I'll be fine, Logan. I hope you make it."

He paused. "Things are never gonna be the same between us."

"No, Logan," she agreed.

"Look at you, all grown up," he whispered

"Tell me how I came to you," she said abruptly.

He shifted, glancing away.

"It started here, didn't it," she said, listening to her instinct. "But not here."

"I was escapin," he said. "When we ran across you, I was… well, I wasn't anywhere between here and the 'States."

"I may never see you again, Logan, and we're running out of time," she said, her voice low. "Tell me, for God's sake."

"I wish I could," he said helplessly. "I wish I knew how." He hesitated, sniffed, and glanced up.

Her eyes followed his glance as Kurt dropped from the dark rectangle in the ceiling, landing without a sound on his oddly misshapen and dexterous feet.

"We are out of time," he said in a rush. "Bryant has been monitoring your conversation. We have _seconds._"

"Darlin," Logan said, extending his hand to Lisa.

"What, you think we're getting out of this room?" she asked, alarmed, realizing she was about to be in the middle of a vicious battle.

Logan's eyes grew hard. "I'm sorry, darlin," he said, and he launched across the table at her.

At the same time, the door flew open, and Kurt lunged for Logan. Logan closed his hands around Lisa's shoulders; Kurt tore the veil between this world and the underspace. Logan would not let go, would not release, would not surrender Lisa. She screamed as Kurt pulled them out of space. After an agonizing split second there was a brutal tug.

Soldiers in heavy body armor piled into the meeting room to see nothing but a mist of swirling smoke that stank of brimstone as it swirled slowly under the lights.

**xXx**

Wrenching pain, like a blindsiding car crash: Lisa was sure she had died.

She was laying on Logan's chest, his hands still gripping her shoulders painfully tight, as though death itself could not force him to let go. She heard the dull groan of the peculiar dark man, not far away. She heard a hissing slither that could be a lava flow. A peculiar empty heat washed over her.

She opened her eyes.

The sky… was not a sky.

Instead it was a peculiar wash of violent flame, like a chemical fire seen from too close. A peculiar ripple of colors slowly shifted above the landscape. She pried herself free of Logan and stood, shaken but rapidly recovering from the transit.

"Impossible," came a voice made of iron, a voice that brooked no defiance. "They are not in the cage."

She glanced to the side and saw a heavy cage made of red-hot iron. The bars were printed with strange sigils stitched with the flame of the earth's guts. She looked the other way and saw a man, tall and savage and noble, his cruel face drawn up in anger. Behind him, misshapen hunched creatures lurked. Demons.

"Belasco," she said coldly, his name springing to her mind unbidden, "we are not your prisoners."

Kurt sat up, clutching his chest, coughing wisps of brimstone. Logan began to stir, and she saw burns creasing his flesh. Only she had survived the transit unharmed.

"Yer right," Logan managed, turning to look at Kurt. "There he is." Kurt could only nod.

Belasco towered six and a half feet tall. His red armor gleamed dully. He held a massive spear, and his flaring red eyes summed them up contemptuously. Logan grimaced a smile when he saw the heavy staples that held Belasco's head on his neck; damage not entirely repaired.

"So you remember me," Belasco said, looking directly at Lisa. "Has it all returned yet, Illyana?"

"I've heard enough," Logan grunted, rolling to his feet. "That name don't mean nothin now. Kurt, you up?"

"I'm up, my friend," Kurt managed. He threw off the concealing wrap, and he climbed to his feet. He wore a tight sleeveless vest that showed off his wiry blue arms. His forearms were wrapped in metal bracers with peculiar buttons on them. He wore loose pants and light boots. At his side was a slim blade, like a rapier with no crosspiece or basket. He drew it, and Lisa noticed a wiry tail lashing behind him as he crouched, ready to fight.

Logan nodded, his jaw set. "Stay back, Lisa. We settled him once. We'll do it again." He sprang.

The first demons moved to stop him, and his claws unsheathed with the disturbing hiss of steel through meat, sliding along metal bone. They swept down, and the first demon spun howling as its arm was sliced through at the shoulder joint. Logan kicked him down and slammed his claws through the faces of the next two as Kurt bounded up into the air, lightly kicked off Logan's shoulders, flipped, and landed slashing at Belasco himself.

Belasco casually caught the slash across his forearm, the blade tracing a thin pale line on the dull armor. Belasco laughed, and shoved the massy spear through Kurt's space. Kurt hopped, landing on the spear shaft and expertly putting his blade through Belasco's left eye. Belasco roared, leaping back, viscous ichor trailing in the air as though it was unwilling to fall to the ground. Kurt landed and rolled, then was surrounded by demons. Down, thrust, through, around; he escaped the knot, and whipped his blade around him with a speed that gave them pause, fearful of his sting.

Logan slaughtered. His claws tore through knobby hides, ripped limbs, slashed through faces and chests, tore and pierced. He had not yet let go, but he had to keep moving so the piles of dead and dying would not slow his footwork. He bled. He did not care.

Belasco cupped his hand over his mutilated eye; the ichorous venom of his blood oozed out past his palm. He snarled. "Elfin trespasser," he boomed. "You have moved through the underspace that is my realm too many times to go unpunished. Now you have added insult upon insult." He moved his hand away, and the eye blazed with feral light, whole again. "Now you shall be punished."

He snarled a few sounds that could be words in a place where there was no light or sanity, and Kurt screamed as he was rammed through space sideways; he crashed to the ground inside the cell. "For those who would move through my space," Belasco chanted, "there are ways to _be_ moved through my space."

More demons moved on Logan, and more; a wall, a sea. Yet he did not fall. He tore and danced, leaped and slashed. He could not be stopped. He could not be downed. He was pure death, his claws all around him, puncturing and tearing and shredding. Still the demons came, more afraid of Belasco than oblivion. Here, Logan took no care to preserve life. Here he killed, fast and without remorse. Restraint set aside, he became what his enemies feared.

Lisa stood alone, her fists clenched, the unwholesome winds of this world eddying around her, whispering to her, bringing memories and laying them at her feet. She had never seen Logan like this… yet, somehow, she _had._

"The sense of smell is closest to memory," she murmured as the gory slaughter drifted further afield. Kurt's breathing was a whine, and he clutched his chest, bright red blood streaking the close velvet fur of his face and throat. The cage pulsed and flared around him in time to his heartbeat.

A few demons crept towards her. She turned to face them, unafraid and wondering why she was unafraid.

Logan slashed around behind him to find there were no demons near enough for his claws. They had pulled back. He turned to face Belasco.

Belasco loomed above him. "Very impressive," he said, gesturing the way he had come, at the piles of wounded and dying demons. Odd dark creatures the size of cats had scurried from the shadows of the rocks, from the underneath places. They were already feasting on the fallen. Logan squinted at Belasco as the gashes across his face started to knit and seal. He put a hand to his ribs; felt his adamantium bones, the flesh creeping back over them.

"Let's dance," he growled.


	8. Deja Vu

The spear darted out at him; irritated, he caught the blade in his claws and with his other arm he lashed down; his claws sheared the spearhead from the heavy iron shaft in a shower of sparks. Belasco lashed out at him with the bar, and Logan ducked to come up with his claws punching through Belasco's elbow armor. Logan wrenched them free, and with his other claws he slashed at the wrist. The gauntlet was sheared off, along with Belasco's thumb.

Belasco roared a strange curse, and flame engulfed Logan, hurling him backwards to crash into a stone chunk. There was a meaty clang as Logan crushed into the rock, then he fell out of the crater he had made, smoking. The rock at Belasco's feet hissed as his blood spattered down.

Belasco turned and stared at Lisa. He pointed at her with the hand that was still gauntleted. "Destroy her," he growled.

"We… we cannot, Sire," groveled a large black and purple demon at his feet. "Your wards… your commands…"

"It seems I must do everything myself," Belasco snarled. He picked up the heavy iron bar that had once been a spear, and he strode towards Lisa.

She watched him come, her mind racing with half-grasped memories. Her past was coming back to her, but too slowly. "Your creatures cannot touch me because you protected me from them, each and every one of them, when I was brought here," she said breathlessly.

"Yes," Belasco said. He stopped twenty feet away. "Perhaps it is not too late. Do you wish to be my apprentice?"

"Again?" she asked haughtily, her words surprising her. "I escaped you once."

"It seems unlikely your savior will be so successful a second time," Belasco said, gesturing toward the charred hunk of meat and metal that was struggling to rise. "He stole you from true power. He stole you from your fate."

Logan struggled to speak, but his lungs were still full of smoke; his throat nothing but a charred tube of meat; his tongue half bitten off from the jarring impact of his crash. He could not yet see, but his hearing was returning.

His claws were still sharp.

"If that is your choice," Belasco said to Lisa, his fingers tracing over the clean cut at the end of his staff, "then I will destroy you."

"No," she said. "I will not let you."

"You will stop me? Alone, unarmed, powerless, defenseless?"

"Not at all," she said, as memory surged in her. She stretched out her hand, and her birthright erupted through the stone before her. A column of rock shoved out of the barren ground, and a hilt punched through. Shining, silver, gleaming in an ornate twisted pattern. She grasped the hilt and tore the blade free of the rubble; it gleamed pale and did not reflect the troubled flaming sky.

"It has grown since I saw it last," Belasco said, his voice almost reverent, as the pale light reflected in his eyes, shone off his dull armor. A cruel smile twisted his face, exposing his dark teeth. "Indeed, this becomes interesting."

"Help me," Kurt said softly. Lisa spun, her blade arcing through the air with the hiss of hot steel plunged in cold water; the blade hit the ensorcerelled cage and slashed through three bars. She gripped the sword and swung again, and severed bars fell hissing as the cage went dark and began to sift rust. Kurt bounded out.

"Most interesting," Belasco intoned, his face a mask of dark joy.

Then his eyes shot wide open as his blood fountained into his mouth; he staggered forward accompanied by the screech of razor sharp claws tearing out of his armored back.

Unsteady on his feet, Logan stumbled back. Belasco whirled to face him, and Kurt sailed in. The dark and nimble attacker's blade slipped between flesh and one of the staples that held Belasco's head on; Kurt flexed, and the staple sprang out of Belasco's neck and skittered across the stone.

Belasco clapped a hand to his neck and leaped to the side, then he turned to face them both. "I see," he said. "You aren't finished with your beating yet."

"We like it," Kurt said, his brilliantly white teeth stained pink with his own blood. One of his eyes was swollen almost entirely shut. He was light on his feet and ready for more.

Lisa felt her rage building. "This soulblade is not my only weapon," she said, desperately trying to remember. "And you will not bring harm to my friends." Her eyes narrowed, and fury blossomed in her heart. As it did, she felt her sword twitch in her fist, and sleek armor hissed out across her hand, then up to encase her forearm. It glittered, and she felt her breath come hot and fast. Yes. Yes, the joy of battle was beginning to well up in her; she knew for the first time the hot rage that Logan felt, the rage that left its taste stamped in her mouth. Yes.

She turned to the demons that were waiting, unsure. "Stay out of this," she hissed, and they backed down. It seemed Belasco had forgotten about them. She felt them; she felt their lives like she had never felt anything before. Now, holding the soulblade, she could somehow sense the land itself, and all that walked upon it.

"Let's even things up, shall we?" murmured Belasco. He gestured at Kurt again. As Kurt leaped back cringing, Lisa flung out her hand, fingers stiff. Belasco moved to tear at the elfin swordsman, throwing him sideways through underspace again. Lisa blocked him; this was her space too. For just a moment, their wills locked.

Logan could not speak yet, but he could see well enough to spot an opening. He lunged forward and slammed his claws into the side of Belasco's knee; they screeched through the armor and punched out the other side, transfixing his meat on the three blades. Simultaneously his other claws darted up and caught in Belasco's wrist armor. Logan dug in his heels and shoved sideways; Belasco tottered for a moment then Logan twisted his claws, swinging Belasco off balance and tearing his knee with audible pops of bone and tendon. Belasco howled as he slung to the ground, and Logan tore free and hopped back.

Kurt needed no further encouragement; hideously nimble, he darted in, his hands gripping Belasco's head even as the demon warrior rose to a kneeling position. In a lightning fast flurry of action, Kurt's tail popped a staple out as he went for two more with his nimble feet, prizing them free. Belasco's scream became a choke as Kurt sprang away, closely followed by the hissing slash of the iron bar. Belasco poured flaming energies after him, but Kurt spun and leaped and tumbled, unpredictable and oddly graceful.

The bar Belasco held in his other hand was momentarily forgotten. Logan slashed the bar in two and snatched up a four-foot section. He struck, all the might of his short body packed into the swing. It caught Belasco in the temple; the few remaining staples could not keep his head on. Belasco's head tore loose and sailed through the dim air, thudding down on stone, rolling a few feet, coming to a stop.

"_Damn you!_" screamed Belasco. "_I will be back! I will slay you all! My vengeance is coming!_"

Logan limped over to the head, rammed the bar into the cursing mouth, and lifted the head up. He trudged over to a hissing current of lava, then dropped the head and the bar in. There was a flare, and a horrid sizzle, then Belasco's head spoke no more. Kurt and Logan took the cautious route and dumped the body in after it.

The woman that had been Lisa stood, rigid, her sword's tip sunk into the stone, her eyes shut but her demeanor staring all the same. Then she relaxed, and lifted her blade. It had a hand and a half grip; the weapon seemed longer, more vivid than it had before. Armor gleamed on her hand, her forearm. She looked at her rescuers, and to Logan it seemed like she barely recognized them.

He was a meaty mess; his hair was flamed off, along with much of his flesh. As he regenerated, blood flowed from his ruptured body. He collapsed, the need for battle gone, the pain returned.

Kurt stood panting, his tongue pink and flat in his dark mouth. He wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand, and he glanced over the assembled demons, ready to keep fighting if necessary.

"Trespasser," Lisa said to Kurt in a clear voice. "That is your name from now on. To my Horde," she said, her voice ringing across the assembly, "he is not to be intercepted. As he travels in the realm near this one in his teleportation, leave him alone."  
"Thank you," Kurt said, bowing to her with his fist over his heart. "That will be most acceptable."

She looked across the ranks. "Where is your leader? Where is Sym?"

"Here," he grunted, a huge dark-hued creature.

"You were not in the fighting," she said coolly.

"I had my reasons," he grinned. "I knew you'd win."

"Of course you did," she said. "My memory has gaps. Fill me in."

The demon drew out a cigar and lit it with his pinky finger. He took a deep drag, then puffed out a smoke ring. "You were captured from Prime by Belasco when you were three. He raised you to be his apprentice and taught you as much as you'd need to know. He had a bigger plan for you when you were snatched out from under his nose by some enterprising trespassers."

Energies swirled in her eyes. "I know how to move back and forth between the realms," she said softly. "Between this underspace and realspace."

"That would be Limbo and Prime," Sym nodded.

She looked out over the demons. "Disperse," she said. They dutifully trooped off; this was her world now. She knelt by Logan. "Looks like you saved me again, my knight in shining armor," she said.

"I think our friend needs some time alone," Kurt murmured to her. Logan managed a nod, then collapsed near exhaustion. His healing was slower; enough to keep him alive, in great pain. Kurt wondered for a moment what the Project would think if they could have seen him fight. What his will pushed him to survive.

"You've been here before," the woman said to Kurt. He nodded.

"What do I call you?" he asked.

Her forehead creased. "I do remember the name Illyana, but I don't remember anything about it. I guess that's mine. I've been called Lisa my whole life," she said, gesturing to the man on the ground, "but it just doesn't seem to be me anymore; it was a lie the whole time. Just call me Swordbearer until I get it sorted out," she said, glancing down the length of her weapon.

Kurt nodded. "As you wish. I was assisting Logan in escaping the Project, many years ago. When I teleport, or trespass as you put it, I move through a space between realspace and here; I guess I'd call it underspace. Apparently that put an itch in Belasco that he wanted to scratch, so he diverted me, just like he did this time. Logan took exception; he was meaner then. He took Belasco by surprise. Belasco wore no armor. Logan just, whssht" Kurt gestured, "took his head clean off in one hit. You were here, locked up in a metal box, a pretty little girl. Logan said he didn't have the heart to leave you with the demons. So he took you when I trespassed us out of this place. Raised you as his own."

"No wonder he had difficulty explaining to me where I came from," she said, looking down at him. He looked back at her, not trying to speak.

"He told me that he thought you could both overcome your circumstances and be better," Kurt said quietly.

She squatted down next to Logan. "We had our uses for each other, didn't we, Logan. You raised me and I gave you a measure of humanity. The score is even between us."

He struggled to speak; first a clammy whistling noise. He closed his mouth, closed his eyes, then tried again. "I wasn't keepin score, darlin," he managed.

She stood. "The rest of my life seems like a dream," she said to Kurt. She looked around the landscape.

Rock shifted on the uneven sea of magma. Here and there were stunted growths. The sky was dark flame.

"I can make this place better," she said. "It is just raw material. I know how to shape it. I don't know how I know, but I do. Belasco wanted this. He is a fool. I will make it better."

"As you wish," Kurt said, helping Logan to his feet. "What of Tymaz Nine?"

"No human mortal poison can touch me here," she shrugged. "I imagine it would be a problem if I were to return. Now let's see what I can do here." She jammed the tip of her sword in the stone and rubbed her hands together, the gauntlet against her flesh. "Let's get started."

**xXx**

By the time Logan could walk and had stubble on his raw flesh, they were within a crude throne room shaped from basalt stone. A massive throne dominated one side, and before it was a scrying pool. There was space for demon courtiers on the sides, and a small platform for Sym. The style was somewhere between cave and cathedral. Kurt crouched by Logan, who sat holding very still as his body knitted itself into one piece.

"We should not overstay our welcome," Kurt said softly.

"I know. I'm tryin. I'll need some food, and a lot of it, before long."

The demon Sym grunted. "Your guests are ready to go."

The Swordbearer nodded. "Trespasser, let me save you some effort. Come stand before me."

Logan hauled himself up, and he and Kurt approached her.

She stretched her arm out towards them, fingers stiff; a flaring disc of empty light ringed in dark flame appeared under them and swept up;

Then they were standing ankledeep in the snow on the fringe of a dark wood. Dusk was falling.

"Great," Logan muttered. "Just great."

"I hate to have to say this," Kurt started.

"Then don't," Logan grunted, his voice flat.

"She's evil. She's tainted. No love can heal that. Not even yours, Logan."

"I just can't believe that," Logan said. "I won't believe it."

"You saw with your own eyes," Kurt said, a hint of anger in his smooth voice. "She rules demons."

"What are you exactly," Logan said, looking him in the eye. "How are you different from a demon, my friend?"

Kurt pursed his lips and looked away. "Enough of this. Forget I brought it up." He looked out across the snowy field. "I can't thank you enough for what you did for me, Logan."

"Who's keepin score?" Logan muttered, looking away. "We both got our debts. Forget about it. You need somethin, I'll be there if I can."

They both heard it at the same time. The dull thud of helicopter blades beating through the air.

"How'd they find us?" growled Logan.

Kurt winced. "You're tagged, must be," he said.

"I bet they stuck it in my flamin spine," growled Logan.

Kurt looked at him sideways. "Fight or flee?" he said.

"Git outa here," Logan growled. "They can't track you, you're too damn good. If they take us both nobody can save me." Then his head swiveled towards the woods in alarm as he sniffed. "Oh no—" His claws shot free of their flesh housings as something in the woods stirred.

It was too late to trespass. The huge shape that leaped out of the woods landed a solid blow between Kurt's shoulder blades, hurling him forward and knocking out his breath. Kurt's reflexes got his hands up in time; he slammed into a tree and bounced, landing senseless and sprawled on the snow. A fraction of a second slower, and Kurt would be dead instead of unconscious. Logan faced the attacker, his face set in a grim mass.

"Heya runt," Creed grinned, snow still clinging to his mane.

"Creed," Logan said. "Just can't seem to shake you for long."

"You have something I want," Creed said.

"More trouble'n it's worth,"

"Sez you, mister prototype," sneered Creed. "Your skeleton gives you the edge you need to survive me. When I get one like yours, then we'll have this conversation again. The adamantium coated your bone claws. What d'ya think it'll do for mine?" he leered, easing the razor sharp black talons out of his fingertips. "Anything you can survive, I can survive."

"I'm tired, Creed. Let's get on with it."

"Whassamatter, Logan, lose the old fire?"

"Don't talk to me about fire," Logan winced. "You gonna throw a punch or jabber at me till the soldiers show up?"

Creed started circling him. Logan stood with his head down, alert, waiting. Creed was hesitating. This was not what he expected.

"You can't take me, runt," Creed mocked. "On a good day, maybe. Yer lookin old."

"Know what?" Logan said. "Figure next time I knock you down I'll take your head off. Figure that'll do the trick."

Creed paused. "You know somethin I don't?"

"_There's_ a hole with no bottom," Logan muttered. The helicopter cleared the horizon, thudding up into the sky like a massive unwieldy locust, moving as fast as it could move.

With a loud clang, a bullet ricocheted off of Logan's skull; he flew through the air and slammed to the ground some distance away. Creed snarled at the chopper just as a bullet crashed into his head; he flipped, thudding down on his back. Another bullet smashed into his jaw; teeth flew.

Then the chopper hovered over the site, powerful floodlights illuminating the three bodies on the ground. Creed was dragging himself to his feet. Snipers lined up on him. He was thinking fast. He couldn't speak yet, but he raised his hands, palms out. Soldiers on ziplines skimmed down to the ground as the chopper lined up its minigun on Creed.

It was a short business to slap shackles on the three and haul them into the helicopter; in less than five minutes the edge of the wood was again quiet, with only disturbed snow and splotches of blood to show they had been there.

**xXx**

"Thought I wasn't a prisoner; came under my own steam," Logan said wryly to Bryant, who stood almost face to face with him. Logan flexed to test the shackles his hands and feet and waist were gripped by, but it was more reflex than curiosity. He knew this setup. He had tried its limits before and come up wanting.

"True enough," Bryant said with a smile. "But you didn't sign the paperwork for the release. This _is_ a secret facility, you know."

"Usual fine for skipping paperwork a fifty caliber knock to the head?"

"A little thing like that between us, Logan, is just a little thing. No damage, really."

"I'll remember that," Logan said, flexing. "I'm glad you won't take offense. Should the opportunity arise."

"Enough of this," Bryant sighed. "Our program has a considerable investment in you, Logan. You chose not to work with us, and proved your resourcefulness in refusing to be controlled. We have little choice but to accept that. But you do owe us a lifetime of service, so we'll have to extract it in other ways. Not to mention the expense of the last facility on this site. Not much of it survived your rather melodramatic exit."

"Yeah," Logan grinned. "Keeps me warm at night, just thinkin about it."

"So it seems we're back to where we started. The charade of your cooperation is over, the girl is gone, and your charm has once again reached a record high. I've enjoyed this conversation. I suspect by this time tomorrow you'll be snarling and spitting like a cat; it won't be too long before we've stripped away all the civilization we managed to burn into you."

"Your civilization," Logan spat. "Torture is civilized?"

Bryant smiled as he stepped out of the room. "In the name of science, everything is civilized." He pushed the door control, and the thick bulkhead slid shut.

Logan sagged in his restraints. He felt the needles punch into his back, and he knew what it was; the nutrient flow.

"Don't get to lay down to sleep, don't get to chew when I eat… I hate this place," he muttered. He tried to shift his hands, but the shackle had clamps that locked the tips of his claws against the back of his wrists; try as he might, he could not unsheathe his claws while they were there. He sighed. "So this is it," he whispered to himself, and he leaned his head back.


	9. Spirals, Circles

**xXx**

"Can he talk yet?" Bryant asked as he walked down the hall at a brisk pace.

"I think so," Banner said, "though he has chosen not to. His jaw is largely reformed, but he's missing some teeth and some tongue."

"Won't slow him down any," Bryant said. "He never was that articulate. Might drool a bit more. Here we are." He punched in his code, and the bulkhead opened. Bryant walked in; Banner stayed in the hall with the two soldiers.

"Hello, Victor," Bryant said to Creed. "How are you feeling."

"Bedder for my exercise," Creed said.

"We let you run it off this time," Bryant murmured sternly, "because you came to us as a predator, and Logan was involved. Understand this. You ever go awol again, and we'll nail your hide to the floor as a rug, and your head will be stuffed and mounted in my office like the trophy bag you are. We have Logan, and that changes things considerably. Also, your efforts netted us the furry blue fellow."

Bryant paused a moment, eyeing Creed. Up close, he was so _big…_ "You'll be glad to know I've put the request through to the Uppers," he said. "If we can find out Logan's secret to survival, you will be the next test subject for the bone grafts."

Creed's grin was fearsome, perhaps more so for the jagged tooth stumps that were just starting to peek through bloodied patches of flesh gums.

**xXx**

Kurt wondered why they had put him in a cradle; the room slowly rocked back and forth, back and forth, in a most hypnotizing way. Later, he blinked and tried to shake his head; the room wasn't rocking, he was drugged. Some part of his mothballed brain told him the name of the sedative he was on, but he didn't listen because it didn't matter. His worst fear, to end up as a medical experiment, was coming true. What irony, he mused, to escape Belasco's threat and end up under the knife before he could enjoy it… He tried to move sideways, to drop into underspace, but he couldn't focus.

His capture was the worst fear of his masters, too; they could learn too much from him, even if he never said a word. Which he didn't plan to. Every creature has a limit, though.

The door opened, and Bryant strolled in. "So you are our mysterious infiltrator," he said. "I must admit the techs had a terrible time trying to wash your camo off before they realized it was your face. Personally, I think it will be delightful to shave you and see what color your skin is." He smiled.

Kurt said nothing.

"So do you speak English?" Bryant asked. "We have tests that will discover that soon enough." His smile broadened. "Lots and lots of tests. You'll enjoy it." He turned to go. "Get rested. Tomorrow we'll see what your scream sounds like." Then the door closed behind him.

Kurt scowled. Damn the drugs. Still, they would be sloppy. Then he would show them what he was capable of.

**xXx**

Logan looked up as his door opened. Creed walked in, ducking to get through the door. He stood and stared at Logan.

"Hiya, runt," he said.

Logan just looked him in the eye.

Creed shifted. "I hate to see you like this," he said. "I wouldn't mind if you were tore to bits and killed, but people like you and me, we shouldn't be trapped. It's embarrassing," he said, gesturing at the restraints.

Logan said nothing, his stare unwavering.

"I can't let you go because I need what they're gonna find out from you," Creed explained. "First I was gonna kill you; I owe you that at least, for all the good times we had tearin each other up. But I've been counterordered, and I can't do it if I want to get my own metal skeleton. So I just came in to check on you. Still here, I guess," he said, trying to make a joke.

Logan said nothing, his stare unwavering.

"I guess I'll be going then," Creed said. "Before I go, though, I need to know what you did with Lisa."

Logan's face darkened, and his vitals twitched higher on the monitor.

"I guess you didn't know," Creed grinned. "She was kinda sweet on me when she first came here." He leered. "I reminded her of home, I guess."

Logan growled, deep and ugly.

"We ran searches between here and where you were found, but can't seem to get a track. Your fuzzy pal teleports. He _will_ crack and tell us everything. Thought I'd give you a chance to speak up first. For old times' sake."

"We had this conversation before," Logan said suddenly. "The first time I was here."

"Yeah," Creed said, his grin broadening. "Mystique. Whatta looker. You know, Bryant assigned her to education because she screwed up bringing you in. I guess some yahoo shot her in the leg. Now Logan, who would do such a downright miserable thing to that tasty woman?"

"She came back for me, way back when," Logan said, and he smiled too. His smile was not amused. "Maybe Lisa will too."

"Well, we'll just have to wait and see," Creed said. "Sleep tight. I'm off to bed. I get to brush my own teeth." He barked a laugh, and was gone.

**xXx**

Banner studied the monitor closely. There. In a matter of seconds, the blood cells changed with the pain threshold; anger galvanized the process somehow. Banner bent closer, watching as Logan's body almost hit rage; now, the change—

A gun cocked behind him. He was distracted from the view; the moment slid by and he missed it. He slowly stood and turned.

Lisa stood in the shadows, holding a heavy pistol; standard issue for the guards. "Doctor Banner, I've decided to fight," she said. "Will you be my hostage?"

"You're here to rescue the others?" he said. "How did you get in?"

"Beside the point," she murmured. "I'm here to rescue Logan and the Trespasser."

"I'm your hostage," Banner said simply.

It was not much longer before they had reached Logan's cell and opened it. His eyes widened in surprise to see her as she ran up to his containment unit and started studying the switches.

"Banner," she said quickly. "Shut this down or I'll shoot you, you know the drill."

"Right," he said, and he stepped over and started flipping switches. Logan felt the clamps release from his wrists, felt the system open up, the needles retract. He staggered forward. Lisa was watching the hall for interruptions.

"Didn't take much threatening to get your help here, doc," Logan muttered.

"Sure it did," he said, intent on his work. "She has a gun."

"Whatever," Logan sighed. "Good ta see you, darlin."

"Save it," she said. "I'm here to ask Bryant a question. You are just backup."

"No can do," he said. "Not without Kurt."

They looked at each other for a moment. "You've changed," she said.

He shrugged. "Had to."

She nodded. "We'll get Kurt. Banner?"

"Cell 4A," Banner said. He glanced out into the hallway and led them there. They peeked out before approaching the cell.

Two soldiers stood by the door. "Wait here," Banner said to Logan and the Swordbearer. He walked around the corner.

"Collecting samples," he mumbled, and he punched in the door code and walked in.

Logan glanced around the exposed hallway. "This aint no good," he said. He moved across the way and glanced through a doorway. He pulled the Swordbearer into the breakroom. Glancing at the clock, he saw it was 2 in the morning.

"Logan," the Swordbearer said. "I didn't thank you for your help with Belasco."

"I didn't ask you to," he said.

"Now I'm trapped between the poison on this world and Belasco beneath mine. I'm going to need help."

"That you are," he said. His eyes were sad as he looked at her. She seemed, for a moment, young and vulnerable again; she had perhaps bitten off more than she could chew, too soon. He sighed.

Banner poked his head into the dim room. "There you are. Gave me a start."

"Awful worried for a hostage," Logan drawled.

Banner shrugged. "They need me," he said. "They have the Tymaz Nine samples from you," he continued, nodding at the Swordbearer, "and we have all the samples of everything we could ever want from you," he added, nodding at Logan, "so I figure I'm the least expendable member of this rescue. I'm the only one that can put it all together."

"Let's get moving," Logan said. "I want to find Bryant and get this over with. Where's Kurt?"

"Is that the fuzzy man's name? I let him go, gave him an antidote to the drug, and returned his gear to him. Told him where we were going and gave him a few door codes. I think it's better that way, don't you?"

Logan nodded curtly. "He won't have trouble with the guards. They probably won't even see him."

"Let's go then," the Swordbearer said coolly, "before it's too late."

**xXx**

Bryant was ready for them when they arrived. Blast doors slammed down on either side of them, sealing the three in the hallway. The Swordbearer's eyes flared, and a disc of glowing energy wreathed in flame swept up from the floor, and another one slashed through the empty space near Bryant as poison gas pumped into the sealed hallway.

Bryant gasped, stumbling back. "Lisa?"

The soldiers with him cocked their weapons; heavy body armor, heavy machine guns. Logan grinned.

"You all open up with those cannons, the doc is gonna get creamed," Logan said.

Bryant found courage behind the soldiers. "Too bad," he shrugged. "Aiding and abetting and all."

"You _need_ me," Banner said, indignant.

"You are _replaceable_," Bryant said. "You just never understood that. Fire."

He was a moment too late. Logan was moving. Heavy armor. He grinned, unsheathing his claws with the sound of a slit throat. Then he was among them, faster than they could pull the triggers. He slashed the barrel off a rifle, tucked his claws into a breastplate (but not too deep) so the soldier gurgled and clutched his chest as he fell. Logan knocked a barrel aside so the rifle blasted into another soldier's heavy armor.

Bryant drew his pistol, the silvered gun he had given to Lisa in the park. He lined up, waiting for an opening.

There was a peculiar muffled crack, and the stench of brimstone, then Bryant felt a slim blade at his throat as a hand slid up into his hair and jerked his head back in a single practiced motion.

"Call them off," whispered Trespasser.

"Gamma Six!" Bryant said desperately. The soldiers that could backed off, and Logan let them. He grinned at Trespasser.

"Glad you could make it," he said. He turned to Banner. "You are relieved of hostage duty."

"Thanks for making me feel less replaceable," Banner said to Logan. He looked at the Swordbearer for a long moment, then he turned and left.

"What's this all about?" Bryant asked, holding very still.

The Swordbearer stood before him, her pistol forgotten in her hand. "Did you give me Tymaz Nine?" she asked her voice hard. "Did you give me the disease so you could lure Logan in?"

"No, I swear," he said. "The story is true. When the ER sent out the query about the disease, the CIA picked it up and your name came to us. The rest was luck."

"Luck," she said. "Logan said Tymaz Nine was a KGB failsafe put on potentially dangerous enemies of the state. I was a little girl when I got it, according to you. That doesn't make sense. I've never been to the U.S.S.R."

"Are you sure?" Bryant asked, a glint in his eye. Kurt tightened the knife, and Bryant's brow creased in irritation. "Look, enough with the knife. The odds are in your favor here. Back off. You're going to need me. Right now soldiers are surrounding this location with enough firepower to take out a small country."

"They'll be too late," came a throaty growl from the shadows. Creed dropped from the ceiling and moved into full view, taking his time.

"Back or I kill him," Trespasser said. Creed shrugged.

"Whatever floats your boat," he grinned. "My business here is with Logan. Can't let you leave, shrimp."

The Swordbearer stepped forward. "You've got no choice, Creed."

"What, you gonna stop me, skirt?" he said. "Nice shooter."

She dropped the pistol. "I'll stop you, Creed."

He shook his head in amused disbelief. "Have it your way," he chuckled, and he sprang.

She was faster. A disc of energy tore out of thin air between them; airborne, it was too late for Creed to stop or change direction. She made it big enough for all of him to fit; he sailed through and vanished as the disc collapsed upon itself. Creed was gone.

The Trespasser chuckled. It was a frightening sound.

"What have you done with him?" Bryant shouted, turning a bit green.

"I will release him," she said, turning her lidded gaze on Bryant. "I will release him back to you when he has learned fear. When he has learned proper respect." She paused, and licked her lips. "It could take some time."

The doors blew apart in a shower of sparks and shrapnel; Bryant snatched Kurt's wrist and bent, moving; Kurt was startled. He flew over Bryant's shoulder, but he landed on his feet. Bryant was sprinting away, but one spring would put Kurt on his back.

"Come on!" Logan shouted. "Leave him!"

Bryant flopped down on his stomach as the troops opened up, firing over his body to keep them from approaching him. The Swordbearer opened a disc on either side of them; the bullets flew in one and out the other, spattering across the soldiers coming through the other doorway. Kurt and Logan leaped out of the line of fire, and the Swordbearer joined them. Her nose was bleeding with the strain.

"Too much too quick," Logan said. "Save some for getting us out of here."

"Can I guide you when we go?" Kurt asked. "We will need a helicopter."

She nodded wordlessly as the soldiers closed in; they came around the corner in time to see the three step backwards into the glowing portal.

**xXx**

They emerged in the hanger. As they ran for one of the helicopters, they saw Banner sprint into the room with two briefcases.

"Going somewhere?" the Swordbearer asked.

He stopped short, startled, then he sighed relief. "Yes," he said. "Actually. All the soldiers in the base are on the other side right now, after you lot. I thought I'd leave."

Logan looked at him hard. "There's more to it."

"You want Creed to have an adamantium skeleton? Or the Project to hold the secrets of Tymaz Nine?"

"Not the skeleton," Logan said, "But yes, I want somebody to have Tymaz Nine."

"I'm off to sell what we have so far," Banner said, raising the briefcases. "The rest will go with the lab. We haven't much time."

They needed no further encouragement.

Kurt and Logan headed for a helicopter when the Swordbearer stopped.

"This is as far as I go," she said. Banner climbed into a small bubble copter and started it up.

"What do you mean?" Logan asked.

"I'm no closer to the answer than I was," she said, frustrated. "Now I may never know."

"Darlin," Logan said, "that's why I've gone to the limits I've gone to. So I can know, and not wonder. But you know what? Sometimes, you just never do know. And you have to live with not knowin. That's part of bein an adult."

She stood with tears brimming in her eyes for a moment, and Logan saw she was on the edge of running to him.

Then, a slow disc of energy wreathed in flame slid up out of the floor. She raised her hand, bidding him goodbye, and then she was gone.

Logan stood, musing, for a moment.

Kurt had already circumvented the security on the chopper, and he started it up. Logan turned to see Kurt had chosen the biggest gunship, bristling with weapons and armor. He ran and jumped in. Something exploded with a dull thud in the underground complex; Kurt got the systems online and lifted off. He tore through the air towards the hanger door and swooped out just as the back wall of the hanger exploded with the chain reaction of the ruptured power generator deep underground.

"Circle around," Logan said with a grin, his hands and face pressed to the glass. "I want to watch."

"Afraid not," Kurt said ruefully. "You'll have to make do with this view. If any electrical disturbances make it out, we'd be grounded."

"Fair enough," Logan agreed as he saw a jet of flame up into the dark sky. "Fair enough." He sniffed; sniffed again. He reached under the seat and produced a box of cigars. Grinning, he got one out and bit off the end.

"You mind?" he asked Kurt. Kurt laughed.

"I am familiar with foul smoke, my friend," he said. "I do not mind."

Moments later, smoke puffed out of Logan's mouth. "That _does _ease the mind," he said. "So you picked us the best bird in the nest, huh."

Kurt glanced at him. "I view it as recompense for myself and my employers," he said. "It will be useful in times to come."

"I imagine," Logan said, leaning back. "You know, we saved her all those years ago. Now she saved us."

"I like to think that everything in life moves in circles," Kurt mused.

"Do we ever get anywhere?" Logan asked, drawing on his cigar.

"My friend," Kurt said, "a spiral viewed from above is a circle."

"That it is," Logan said. "That it is."

The chopper thudded into the night, over the still forest, and out of earshot.


	10. B&E

**February 2, 2002**

Mystique looked up, her pale eyes feral. Stark watched her with a smug grin from the other side of the bars.

"I see you've regained consciousness," Stark said, smiling.

Mystique said nothing.

"Sneak in once, shame on you," Stark said. "Sneak in _twice_, shame on _me_."

Her dark face hardened in an expression of cold contempt.

"I do appreciate your services, though I doubt I can afford them," Stark went on, his charm impenetrable. "You are improving my security with each attempt. I've half a mind to let you go and see what else you come up with."

In the space of an excited heartbeat her features lengthened, her hair coiled and twisted like a live thing, her skin's color rippled and shifted, and her shoulders broadened. Stark saw himself sitting on the bunk.

They both smiled the same carefree charm at each other.

"Ah," the Stark outside the cell said, "but I have the button."

He pushed a button on the side of the cell door, and a low frequency pulse rippled through the cell. Mystique let out an agonized cry and slumped to the floor, herself once more.

"Every armor," Stark said, "has its gaps."

Mystique glared at his back as he walked away.

**xXx**

Garrett sat on the bunk, slowly raising and lowering his arm. He just thought about his hand moving; his elbow shifted, his wrist shifted, his hand raised. With the merest thought, he caused his fingers to clench into a fist, then relax.

Cybers. His expression shifted with a thought. He heard Stark approach down the hallway; no one else had that crisp swagger. Garrett slowly stood, and faced the door. He tried on a smile.

Stark strolled in. "Garrett, you're looking positively reconstituted."

"Thank you, sir," Garrett said.

"How do you feel?" Stark asked.

"I don't feel much," Garrett replied with a bulky shrug. "Plastic arms, plastic legs, plastic torso, plastic skull. Not much of me left."

"About eight percent," Stark said, his smile unwavering. "Unbelieveable. You must be uniquely suited, to be so heavily cybered and not just snap."

"Thank you sir," Garrett muttered.

"At least you still have your mind," Stark chirped. "That is more than some people in flesh bodies can claim."

"Yes," Garrett nodded.

"Now Garrett," Stark said with his indefatigable smile, "I'm expecting some visitors tonight, of the corporate espionage variety. If you'd be so good as to stay in your room until it blows over, I'd be much obliged." His smile widened. "Otherwise I'd have to think that your whole reason in coming to me was an elaborate plot courtesy of Nick Fury."

"No sir," Garrett said, shaking his head. "I'm through with those losers. They left me to die in the swamp. If it wasn't for you, I'd be done."

"Let's both try our best to remember that with no regrets," Stark said, mirth dancing behind his eyes. He slapped Garrett's shoulder. "Rest well, my large friend. Tomorrow is a new day."

Garrett watched him go.

"Tomorrow," he murmured to himself, "is a new day."

**xXx**

"You heard me," Stark said to his com unit as he strolled down the hallways in the sub-basement of Stark International's warehouse and laboratory complex. "Reduce the night shift to a skeleton crew."

"But the reports of attempted break ins tonight," Ms. Potts protest. "Surely—"

"Hm," Stark interrupted. "I suppose I could let my well trained security agents meet their demise facing foes they cannot stop. But do you have any idea what insurance would run me? Not to mention severance pay for those that were, well, severed. Wergild is a harsh force in the twenty first century."

"Yes sir," Potts said, her voice subdued.

"And," Stark added, "you're thinking that Mr. Stark just wants to play with his new toy, aren't you."

"Yes sir," Potts said.

"You're right, my dear," he agreed, his smile growing to unbearable proportions. "You're absolutely right."

He snapped the com off and began working through the elaborate protocols between himself and his private laboratory. He headed in to the work station where he developed the least cost effective, most cutting edge designs. He smiled to himself as he considered the possibility that this station produced the clearest expressions of his genius.

"My toy indeed," Stark said, satisfaction suffusing his expression.

Well, that and the three platoons of special weapons teams designed to keep his intruders from leaving alive, should it come to that.

"Spies check in," Stark chuckled to himself, "but they don't check out."

**xXx**

Creed shrugged and yanked at the armored suit he wore. "Me in armor," he growled. "Ridiculous." He looked down the long smokestack.

Grinned.

Jumped.

Even at the top of the chimney, he could feel the intense heat through the suit. As he dropped down towards the incinerator it was as though he was opening an oven. The suit began to melt halfway down the chimney, and when he crushed into the searing flame of the incinerator itself, the suit began to sag off. Blisters bloomed across his flesh; he dared not touch the walls.

The door was another matter.

Gathering every ounce of balance and strength he possessed, he lashed out at the inside of the door to the incinerator. It tore open, sending its latch zipping across the room to rebound from the far wall as Creed tumbled out of the intolerable heat, his flesh searing and burning.

He rapidly peeled the remains of the armored suit off, and he stood in his dark bodyglove, smoking and smoldering in the dim room. He reached over and turned the incinerator off. Smiled. Stepped over the slag of his armor. Far as he could tell, no alarms. Imagine; they didn't expect people to come in that way.

"Should put a doorbell in there," he muttered to himself with a grin. "So I wouldn't have to knock."

He prowled down the hallway, wary and alert and silent.

**xXx**

The face through the armored window was lean and dark and feral, surrounded by a halo of silky iridescent hair. Upside down. As the soldier's eyes widened, the spy's eyes narrowed; the soldier spun on his heel and ran for the door, clawing at his radio.

A muffled crack, and in the haze of smoke it came at him. He whipped his rifle up, but it was torn from his grip by something he did not see, then the lithe spy hopped up over him, and he felt a two-toed foot swiftly and expertly grip his windpipe.

He drew his knife with a rasp of steel on steel, but the other foot caught his wrist. His pulse pounded in his temples for a few moments as he struggled, then his consciousness ebbed.

Trespasser shifted his grip on the light fixture, glancing this way and that, then contracted the muscles in his torso and hauled the unconscious guard up to his perch. His tail teased the guard's handcuffs free of his belt, and the Trespasser handcuffed the guard's belt to the fixture's support.

Leaving the unconscious man hanging well above line of sight, Trespasser stealthed in further.

**xXx**

Peter Parker stood in the shadow of a warehouse, looking across the street and down the block at the entry to a warehouse. Not just any warehouse.

If it was a regular warehouse, it wouldn't need the massive fence topped with loops of vicious barbed wire. Wouldn't need the closed circuit security system along with guards toting submachine guns. Wouldn't need the space, and definitely wouldn't be the back door to Stark International's complex.

Peter pulled the creased note out of his pocket and opened it for the hundredth time.

_Hey Junior,_

_Good times, good memories. Hey, I'm in town._

_If you want to drop by, I'm at 148 Bleeker Circle._

_Having a party Saturday night. Can't miss it._

_Costume party, your fave._

_Be there or be square_

And that was all. The note was on Stark International letterhead, scrawled in an uncouth hand. Peter was uneasy. The note found him at home, through the United States Postal Service, so whoever sent it knew him. Going through the mail system had denuded it of clues that would tell him more.

He wasn't nearly stupid enough to let curiosity lure him into breaking and entering. No way. Nothing to gain, everything to lose.

But if it _was_ Logan, cloak and dagger wasn't his style.

No. Not a chance. No way. Not going in.

A truck rumbled past headed into the complex.

Peter couldn't even fool himself. In a few quick motions he was out of his clothes and stripped down to the mesh that clung to him like a second skin. He tugged his hood over his face and moved. He dropped to his fingertips and toes and almost slithered up to the truck. He bounced up from that position, flipping upside down and tugging himself sideways, clinging to the underside of the truck.

"This is filthy," he muttered. "Reminds me of a school bus seat."

The guards searched the truck, then waved them in. Peter dropped off and rolled up the wall, coming to a rest crouched in a corner of the ceiling. A quick crawl and he was through the doors before they rumbled shut; he was in the motor pool for the complex.

"What am I doing?" he asked himself. "This is exercising? Just because I don't have school tomorrow…" He gave up and shook his head. "The folly of youth."

He scampered along the ceiling and slipped deeper in, easily evading the views of the cameras.

**xXx**

Stark stood facing the faceless armor. He saw the empty eyes, the smooth featureless mask. It might as well be a charming smile. He reached out and reverently touched the steel, forgetting about the microfilters, the modulation integrators, the polymers and fibric lifters, the lens flares and the feedback dampeners, the tiny joints and the gyroscoptics.

"I am Narcissus," whispered Stark, "and you are my mirror." He took a deep breath. "Almost time. Almost."

The lights flickered and went out. A moment later, dim red backups glowed to life.

Emergency power cast Anthony Stark in a whole different light.

"Now," he breathed. He snapped the main restraint on the armor to the off position. "Now, my darling."

Stark suited up.

**xXx**

Garrett snarled to himself as his eyes rolled back. His arm was wide open, wires leading from his wrist to the wall socket where he had torn the panel off to get at the fiberoptic access. His consciousness was moving with obscene speed, parts of his skull chatting with the Stark International security system.

"Security grid beta, off. Security grid alpha, off. External alarm, disengaged." Garrett slapped back into his body and staggered, raising his good hand to his head.

"Ow," he muttered. He flexed, and the wires retracted into his arm, the flesh snapping shut. He stumbled into the hallway.

Tymaz Nine. Not far now. Almost there. He smiled.

The lights were dull red. He heard guards running down the corridor towards him. He pressed himself against the wall by the corner. Two guards ran into view, and he loomed over them.

Before they could react he was moving; his palms shot out and smacked into their helmets. Their heads snapped back and they were airborne, but their spines held.

Garrett bent down over them and took a radio as well as both machine guns.

Headed deeper in.

**xXx**

"Hiya babe," Creed leered through the bars.

"Creed," Mystique said, suddenly breathless. "Are you here to kill me? Or get me out?"

"I'm on leave," Creed replied with a grin. "I'm here on my own recognizance. I think that's the word they used."

"Ah," Mystique said. "Say no more."

"So do I just rip this thingy off?" he asked, gesturing at the electronic panel next to the high tech cell.

"No," Mystique said quickly. "No, don't touch that. They're trapped."

The power suddenly stuttered and died. After a moment of pitch darkness, the emergency power flickered on, and red lights glowed to life.

The cell's energy grid snapped off.

"_Now_ rip the thingy off," Mystique said.

"You got it," Creed said, and he promptly tore the panel out of the wall.

A moment later they were together in the hallway. Mystique gave Creed a quick hug. "Now," she said with a smile that made her teeth gleam red in the emergency lighting, "Let's pick up Tymaz Nine on the way out."

"Uh," Creed said, shifting uneasily. "I just came for you."

"And we're on our way out," she said quickly, putting a hand on his arm. "We'll just swing through the lab. We're in Beta Zone, and Tymaz Nine is in the Alpha Zone, just one level down."

"No way," Creed said, shaking his head and gesturing. "We're going. Now."

"You're saying 'no' to _me_?" she said, settling to one side, aiming a sultry look at the giant.

"Uh," he said. "Uh, let's swing through the lab on the way out."

She dazzled him with a smile. "That's the Creed I remember."

They wasted no more time.

**xXx**

Peter clung to the ceiling looking at the blast door. "Yeah, that's magnetically sealed," he muttered to himself. "Well, looks like the end of the line. I gave it a shot, and I'll just be on my way."

The lights flickered and went out. With a dull click, something gave in the bulkhead. Then dull red lights glowed on.

Experimentally, without really wanting to know, Peter pushed gently on the bulkhead.

It swung open.

"Who am I to defy fate," he muttered, and with that he scooted through the portal and deeper into the complex.

**xXx**

Trespasser glanced over the glowing bank of screens. He saw the Alpha Omega camera; the end in the beginning. Alpha level, Omega clearance. He smiled.

Then he disappeared in a muffled crack and a billowing haze of brimstone.

Kurt stood in the circle of light, looking at the laboratory table adapted to showcase a cylinder, a round tube the size of a film canister. Down one side it read "Stark International" and down the other it read "Tymaz Nine".

Trespasser smiled, revealing small even white teeth and pointed canines. He pulled a small sphere out of his belt and tossed it.

The sphere detonated with a brilliant flash, and the electric systems around the table flared and died. The pulse grenade cleared the way. Trespasser moved to claim his prize.

"Drop it, fuzzball," growled a voice from the doorway, fifty feet away. Trespasser turned to see a hulking brute and a refined woman.

He faced them. "The Project had their shot at Tymaz Nine," he said in his hypnotizing Romany German accent. "Your claim is over."

"Touch that canister and _your_ claim is gonna be over," Creed growled. He moved forward, fast and low.

Trespasser smiled at them curiously, then plucked the canister from its cradle. A muffled crack—

Trespasser screamed, dropping on his back, twitching. Creed pulled up short, and Mystique moved to the shadows.

"What the hell?" Creed said.

"_Simple_," came a voice from the shadows, flowing towards Creed from every direction. "_The pulse-shielded mass displacement system detected a potential rapid mass shift and unleashed enough volts to singe his hair and knock him cold_."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I don't like you," Creed said, crouching for battle. "Come on out and we'll see if I'm right."

"Cover me," Mystique said softly. She glanced around and catfooted up to the canister where it had rolled from Trespasser's senseless fingers. With a smile she knelt to pick it up—

The low frequency pulse was strong enough to vibrate in Creed's teeth. Mystique thrashed over to her back and writhed, making a peculiar squalling. The pulse ended, and she lay unmoving.

"Oho," Creed muttered. "Dirty pool."

"_Controlled molecular instability can be a two edged sword_," the voice said, amused.

"Yeah, my molecules are stable, and my mass aint goin anywhere I don't want it to," Creed said, stepping forward, his boots thudding on the floor. He crouched over the canister and glanced into the shadows. The whole damn place smelled like a factory showroom floor. "Whatcha got for me?"

A gleaming armored figure stepped out of the shadows, not twenty feet away.

"_Raw force._"

Creed's face twisted into a smile.

"_Now_ we're talkin the same language," he said. "Bring it."


	11. End Run

**xXx**

Peter slowly shook his head. From his perch on the ceiling, he watched the huge hulking man stalk towards the armored figure. The armor was sleek and elaborate, not a baroque curl anywhere. The upper arms and legs had peculiar suggestions of muscle, while the greaves and bracers, boots, gauntlets, chest plate, plastron, and helmet were all one shaped suggestion of vision and style. Dark eye slits revealed nothing. The knight awaited the beast's approach.

"No sword?" Creed grinned. "This where you call for backup, or are you a dirty spy too?"

"_I am not a spy_," the suit said. "_Pretend I am the Grail's guardian_."

"Not so good at make believe," Creed said. "Let's pretend you're just so much scrap and smear. Yeah, I can see that. Any minute now."

"_Yap yap yap_," the armor said. "_They use you for infiltration_?"

Creed sprang, and the armor's hands snapped up. Peter gasped as a shock of light erupted, and a crack like a sonic boom rolled through the floor. Creed was airborne, sailing back. He flew a good fifteen feet before he crashed to the ground and slid another ten feet, sprawling and breathless.

"Ow," grunted Creed.

"_Neat_," the armor said, looking down at its smoking palms. Each one had a disc, an energy conduit.

"Les," Creed drooled, trying to roll to his feet, "les try dat 'gain."

"_Fair enough_," shrugged the armor. Twin lances of energy zipped out and snapped into Creed's smoking body, lifting him up and hurling him all the way back to the doorway this time. The repulsor beams cracked louder than a gunshot, and Peter began working his way to a different position. Just in case. That was a mean personal arsenal.

Creed managed a drunken retreat, wobbling along the wall, blood pouring off his punctured skin. "Ow!" he grunted. Then he leaped up, coordination returning to him, and caught a pillar. He scuttled up the pillar like a massive lethal monkey, and he looked down.

"Can you climb in that thing?" he hollered down.

The armor shrugged. "_The world may never know_," it said, and it took two steps and leaped into the air. Discs the size of dimes flared all over the soles of the armor's boots. The subtle, flat backpack let out a high pitched whine as it fired up into the air towards Creed.

Creed leaped out at him; the armor opened up its wide beam close range blasts and flayed the skin off his face and chest; skull gleamed. Then Creed smashed into the armor, momentum reduced but not eliminated.

The armor fired its jets, the backpack jets firing too. Creed clung to the armor, squeezing, and the armor rammed its palms into his ribs and opened up with a full power blast.

Creed could not scream; the blast might have killed him, but the power wasn't there. The jets sputtered out, and they dropped.

Creed twisted so they landed with the armor on the bottom. A muffled clang resounded through the room. Creed dragged himself up, his blood sluicing down his legs and spattering across the armor. He could not speak.

His muscles still worked.

Bending down, he picked up the suddenly tractable armor. He cranked back and threw the armor as hard as he could at close range into the pillar. A resounding gong sounded, and the armor clattered to the floor.

"Howzabout I rips er fath off," Creed managed. He reached down and gripped the head. "Tuth to muv th no power. Hevy, innit."

"It speaks! Rolls over! Plays dead!" echoed a voice from the shadows. "But is it housebroken?"

"Not gin," Creed managed.

Then the foot covered in deceptively sleek mesh rammed into Creed's exposed facial bones with the power of a sledgehammer. Creed staggered back, but Peter landed right in front of him and lashed out.

Peter didn't give him a chance. He kicked his knee, hard, then crushed a blow in to his exposed ribs. A satisfying meaty crunch there. Crushed his heel into his throat, and spun with a punch to the torso that knocked Creed sailing, gore arcing after him.

Peter spun, leaping, as the bullets zipped through space after him. He ended behind a pillar.

"Whoah," he said, glancing around his cover. "I'm one of the good guys!"

"Bully for you," purred a smooth voice. "I'm not. Creed?"

"Guth," he managed. "Guth n mnt."

"He'll be fine," Peter reassured her. "Although he hasn't looked this bad since the time he chased that bulldozer; whooeee, he picked the wrong one to catch up to."

"Har har," grunted the blood-smeared cripple. "Laf whil yu can."

"Okay, lady," Peter said. "I'm gonna take your gun now."

There was a clattering slide, and the gun ended up at Peter's feet. He glanced around the pillar.

"I'll keep him busy for you, Creed," Mystique said softly. "Get well soon." She relaxed.

Peter strolled out. "C'mon, you're making me feel guilty about this. You couldn't possibly know, after all. I'm out of your league, lady. Even if you are blue. I'm fast, and fast trumps blue."

"Well then," she purred, "why don't you come to me."

He sprang, but she took the smallest step to the side, just out of his reach. He whipped around in midair and landed turning, so the wicked blade she drew out of nowhere skimmed his back instead of plunging through his ribs. With a twitch he was to the side and facing her, but a sidestep moved her enough to slice a thrust at his face. He easily caught her wrist, but he did not sense her foot lashing down until it drove painfully between the bones of his foot, mashing his instep.

A lesser man would have been crippled, and his grip loosened. She whirled with almost lazy grace, whipping her elbow into the side of his head. He spun free as she slung around low, her leg sweep catching his ankle as he darted back. He landed unsteadily. She was there in a fluid recovery from the sweep, her blade flicking towards his thigh. He slapped it away in time to catch her distended knuckle in the back of his elbow, right in the nerve cluster.

He lashed out with a strike, but she moved just slightly and his fist slashed through her hair as her shin locked with his, her instep against his heel. He was knocked off balance, and he fell and rolled with superhuman speed, popping up in time to deflect her slash.

He knocked it to the side and would have been wide open for the spinning kick that went with it, but his reflexes dropped him under that too, and he zipped web into the ankle she stood on and hopped back, tugging.

She gasped as her ankle whipped out from under her, but she slapped the ground as she landed, channeling the force of the impact away. A quick twist and the lethal knife slid through the thin web strand and she did a kip up, landing in a spring.

"Did I say fast trumps blue?" Peter said, catching his breath. "I meant fast trumps blue and _sexy_."

She smiled. "Charming."

Wrong Wrong Wrong 

Peter's senses lit up, alarmed! He whirled as Creed's fist smashed into his back, sending him flying at Mystique. She neatly sidestepped with everything but her leg, so he tumbled over it and sprawled, sliding, on the floor.

Creed, feeling much friskier, pounced. Peter came up with everything he had, landing a blow square in Creed's chest. Bones snapped, flesh tore, and Creed lifted up off the ground and smashed down on his back.

"Oh look," Mystique said coolly, inspecting the gun in her hand. "We're back to this."

Peter was moving, the bullets lashing in his wake. Then his web zipped out, snagged the gun.

"I told you I was gonna hafta take your gun," Peter said, shaking his head as he tugged it out of her hand.

"Yow," he yelped as Creed loomed over him again. "Bad dog! Obedience school wasn't worth the paper you trained on."

Peter leaped back out of Creed's slashing range. "Bad dog!" he shouted, bounding in. "Down!" He punched him in the eye. "Stay down!" He slapped his ear with a cupped palm, rupturing the eardrum. Creed grunted. "Play dead, dammit!" Peter said, driving a two fisted blow into his upper leg.

Creed connected with a backhand that sent Peter skidding across the floor, but it didn't have Creed's usual power behind it.

"Heh," Peter managed, struggling to rise, "gettn tired, ol man?"

The gun barked, and a bullet slammed into Peter's leg. He screamed as the impact spun him around; he clutched his leg and scrabbled back in one unwieldy thrash of limbs.

Creed was still fast. Peter got one shot in before Creed gripped him.

"Now," Creed said. "Now we done."

Then everyone in the room froze to the slow lethal sound of distending adamantium claws.

"Not nice," Logan said, slowly shaking his head. "That's just not nice."

"hep," Peter said in a small strangled voice.

Logan nodded. "You got it."

"Damn," Mystique murmured, swiftly reloading the gun. "This is _not _good."

Peter whipped both his legs up and crushed a kick into Creed's upper chest. Collarbones snapped and Creed let go. Peter twirled and landed on his feet, favoring one leg. Creed let him go, turning to face Logan.

Logan walked down the short flight of steps from one of the doors that had been sealed. His wild mane of fierce dark hair swept up behind him. His short, hard body was dressed in canvas pants and an undershirt. His claws gleamed in the dim light of the shadowed room. He squared off with Creed.

"Let's dance," he growled, his eyes dark and smoldering with fury.

Creed lowered his head for a moment, and his shoulders sagged. He gathered his strength. Then he looked up, and there was death in his eyes. Logan slowly smiled. This time, Creed got to drop the hammer first.

"You know what, lady?" Peter said, squinting at her. "You are a cool customer. I've enjoyed our little tango. Thanks for playing."

"You think I'm done?" she said, arching an eyebrow.

"Yep. That's pretty much the size of it," Peter said. Then he was moving.

Web plopped across the barrel of the gun, wet and sloppy. As Mystique spun to remove the gun from Peter's line of fire, she felt web snap into her hair. Before she could react, she was jerked off her feet. She hit the floor and web slopped into her shoulder. She rolled as fast as she could, but after one roll she stuck to the floor. Another strand, and another. Webs piled on her as Peter used his devastatingly precise aim to slow her down, then disable her.

"On second thought," he said, "I guess you can keep the gun." Then another layer hissed out at her.

Logan walked towards Creed, shaking his head. "Creed, Creed, as much fun as this little reunion is, what are you doin here? Don't you know better? How the hell did you get away from the Swordbearer?"

"Aint here ta talk," Creed managed.

Logan shrugged. "Come get some."

Creed sprang, and Logan sidestepped, whirling low. Adamantium claws snagged in the muscle mass above Creed's knee and tugged his foot off balance while tearing a chunk of flesh out. Creed staggered and Logan pounded claws through the back of his knee. He ripped free and darted back before Creed's backhand arrived. Then he was moving; one set of claws rammed through Creed's elbow and the other through neck muscles, then Logan spun and tucked his back against Creed as he leaned forward, hurling. Claws slashed free of Creed with a disturbing spray of blood, but the behemoth flipped over Logan and smashed down on all fours. His knees cracked.

Logan lashed out, his claws going through Creed's shoulder muscles. Then Logan jumped back, his claws bright red, blood trailing in the air behind him.

Creed struggled to rise, but his heart wasn't in it. He was racked with agony; so much pain. Too much pain. He wasn't psyched for Logan. The incinerator, then the repulsor blasts and the beating from Peter had worn him down too far. He had not gotten a chance to recover.

"Yeah," Logan said, his voice soft and full of pity. "I guess that's it." He moved to the side, and raised his claws to bring them down on Creed's exposed neck.

"What are you doing?" Peter demanded.

"Just look the other way, kid," Logan said, and his claws lashed down.

Web snagged his fist and yanked him off balance. His forearm thudded down hard onto Creed's neck.

Logan twisted his wrist and the webs sheared through like tissue paper. For just a moment he stared at Peter.

Peter stared back, unmoving. Logan's eyes narrowed.

"I got involved to stop a cold blooded murder," Peter said quietly, gesturing at the armor. "I can't just stand here and let _anybody_ get killed."

Logan let Creed slump to the ground. "If you decide to keep Creed alive, you murder a lot of people, kid. This may be the only chance we get."

"Then we'll have to miss it. There has to be another way."

"Stupid!" Logan growled. "Dance a round or two with him and you'll change yer mind. I'm doing this, even if I have to go through you ta do it. I've sacrificed too much, kid, I'm sorry."

Peter nodded. "I took a beating from him, but that doesn't change my mind. I'm sorry it has to be this way."

Logan flexed. "Your call. Let's dance."

Peter darted in, favoring his wounded leg, and cut loose with a punch. It slammed into Logan's head, a meaty ringing sound, and Logan _took _it. Before Peter could recover, claws flung themselves into his face—

Retracted at the last instant; a metallic thud as Logan's fist smashed into Peter's forehead. Peter's head snapped back, and he stumbled; Logan was a lot stronger than he looked, especially with his adamantium knuckles. Peter reached out and caught Logan's retreating fist with his fingertips.

Calling on all his adhesion, he stuck to the fist and spun. Power flowed through his body and Logan was yanked off the ground and sent sailing through the air.

The short man spun and slammed feet first onto the pillar, then flipped down and landed upright. Peter had caught up to him by then.

Logan popped his claws and slashed, and Peter leaped up backwards, the claws hissing under him.

"Hey Moe!" Peter yelped, conking the top of Logan's head with his fist as he sailed past.

"Hey Moe?" Logan grunted, trying not to laugh. Then he stopped, and his shoulders shook. He threw back his head and started laughing.

Peter stumbled on his bad leg then leaned back on the pillar and started laughing too. They both stood there and laughed, until their sides hurt, until they couldn't breathe.

Logan stopped laughing and stared hard at the door a moment before Peter's senses kicked into high gear—

Logan plowed into Peter as the spray of bullets slammed across where they had been. Peter's acute senses felt every thudding impact of the bullets that smashed into Logan's back as they tumbled. They landed rolling and ended up behind a pillar.

Garrett moved in, low and fast, submachine guns smoking. "Creed, get up," he said, low and urgent. He dropped a rifle and picked up Tymaz Nine where it lay on the floor.

Creed roused himself and crawled over to Mystique.

"Leave her," Garrett said without emotion.

"No," snarled Creed. "She can imitate Stark, be our hostage."

Garrett scowled, picking up the submachine gun he had dropped. "Be quick."

Creed tore at the webbing around Mystique. "When we get that thing out it's gonna transmit," he said.

"I'll swallow it if it does," Garrett shrugged. "Then it will be shielded."

Creed ripped Mystique free of the web. She reared up, gasping. Creed scooped her up in his arms. "You okay, Misty?"

"Don't call me that," she gasped.

Creed grinned. "She's okay. Just like old times."

"Oaf," she managed.

Mystique shifted to a very battered and abused Anthony Stark. The trio headed for the exit, slipping away. The door slid shut behind them.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked, rolling Logan over.

"Fine," Logan said, pulling out a cigar. "Just gimmie a minute to let the sting wear off. Better check on the armor."

Peter gently slapped his forehead. "I forgot about him!" He limped over to where the armor lie in a crumpled heap.

For a moment he let his hyper-alert senses play over the armor, then he reached down and gently undid several clasps. The faceplate slid off easily enough, demagnetized and disengaged.

A handsome aristocratic face was revealed. The injured man was still breathing, barely.

Peter heard Logan walk up behind him. "Stark, you alive?"

The man's eyelids fluttered, then slowly drifted apart. "Logan?"

"I'm here, Mister Stark," Logan said, bending down.

"Dija trip the exit alarms?" Stark slurred.

"You bet," Logan nodded.

Stark relaxed. "Take me to the control room."

"I don't think so," Peter said. "You're in no shape to move."

"Who are you?" Stark asked, his face pale but his eyes shining.

"This," Logan said, putting his arm over Peter's shoulder, "is a friend of mine from way back. He saved your bacon while I was tryin ta get out of the security suite. I damaged some assets on my way over."

"Forgiven," Stark breathed. "You a spy?" he asked Peter.

"No," Peter said, glancing at Logan. "I was invited to this party." Logan grinned.

"I… I don't feel so good," Stark said.

"Give me a hand, kid," Logan muttered.

"I still don't think we should move him," Peter grumbled as he helped pick up the fallen armor-clad warrior.

**xXx**

Creed leaned against the wall, Mystique propped up behind him. Garrett was dispassionately reloading.

"Gonna be a lotta bodies gettn outa this one," Creed mumbled, trying to find the strength to go on.

"Yes," Garrett said softly, cocking the rifle.

Then there was a muffled crack and a plume of brimstone. Garrett spun firing, but Trespasser was too quick for him. He bounded up in the air, snatched the canister, bounced off the rifle barrel, and clung to the ceiling. Then he smiled, and the smile seemed to linger as he teleported out, leaving a white afterglow in the blast of brimstone.

"Gone," Garrett mumbled, staring at the slowly swirling smoke. "The whole reason… gone… just like that…" he quivered on the edge of being pushed too far.

"I got what I came for," Creed said softly, and he felt Mystique rub against him.

"We aren't out yet," she said crisply. "I've been after this thing twice. Third time's a charm."

"Gone," Garrett mumbled…


	12. Toasted

**xXx**

"Please don't," Logan said softly as Stark flicked the cover off the trigger.

"He stole from me," Stark said patiently.

"He stole the dummy," Logan said. "An he's a friend of mine."

"What are you two talking about?" Peter asked.

Stark looked at him. "The Tymaz Nine canister they all want. It's a decoy, a fake. In fact, it's a bomb. I push this button and a microburst blows away everything within fifteen feet."

Peter felt cold. "Yikes."

"Don't," Logan repeated.

Stark sighed. "I owe you gentlemen my life," he said after a brief pause. He flicked the cover back down.

"What about them?" Peter asked, nodding at the screen. Three generations of the Project's finest were cornered; Mystique, oldest and most enigmatic, next to Creed, the largest and most savage, and in the lead the newest and most technological marvel, Garrett.

"I want to see if they can get out," Stark said, his eyes gleaming. "I want to see if they are as good as they are supposed to be."

"Mistake," Logan said, lighting a cigar. "Corner them and they'll surprise you. So far there's been no killin."

Stark looked at Logan long and hard.

Garrett snapped. He came around the corner, through the tear gas. He was among the security guards. His hands and legs darted out with vicious strength. He was an awkward whirligig of death. He leaped into the masses and yanked off heads, punched through armor, tore out throats. They were too close, too slow for the killing machine he had become. Stark watched in slack jawed awe as Garrett punched through fifteen troops in as many seconds, arming himself with the gun they had been setting up in an emplacement.

"My God," he whispered.

Then Garrett was on the surface. He moved fast, and low, and he didn't miss. The two barricades went down, then the satchel charge took out a segment of fence. The three escaped into the night.

Stark sat stunned.

Logan sighed, and put a hand on Stark's shoulder. "That's about thirty dead," he said. He took a deep drag on his cigar. "No class, that new guy. No respect for life."

"My God," Stark whispered.

Then it was over. The radio crackled. "Mr. Stark?" said the captain of security. "Do we pursue?"

"No," Stark said. "No, let them go. Inform the police."

"Yes sir."

Stark turned off the monitor, and the three of them were alone.

"Are you… okay?" Peter asked.

Stark winced. "I've recharged the suit," he said, gesturing at the cables plugged into the shoulder vents. "I don't know what shape I'll be in outside it. We'll just have to see. Creed… he's very strong."

"Yeah," Logan said, rubbing his jaw.

"Speaking of which," Peter segued, "what the hell are you doing here, Logan?"

"Oh yeah," Logan said. "Dija like my note?"

"It was great, why did you drag me into this?"  
"Well," Logan said, puffing on his cigar, "Stark tracked me down and invited me. See, I'm what you'd call an expert on Tymaz Nine."

"What _is_ Tymaz Nine?" Peter asked, frustrated.

"Classified," Logan and Stark said in unison. "Anyway," Logan continued, "When Mystique grabbed Tymaz Nine the first time, she ditched it in your car when she made her getaway. Pure accident, but when I saw your picture in Stark's file I knew you'd want to get in on this little shindig. I missed ya," he said, reaching out to ruffle Peter's hair; Peter reflexively moved without thinking.

"Yeah, but who was the furry blue guy?"

"Another friend of mine from way, way back," Logan said. "He wasn't here for _me_, though. His bosses want Tymaz Nine pretty bad."

"So if that was the decoy, where is the real one?" Peter asked, frustration rising.

"I destroyed it," Stark said softly. "I developed a temporary suppressant to counter its symptoms, then I destroyed the samples of the weapon itself."

"That's a nasty joke," Peter said with a grin.

"But not the best punchline of the night," Stark replied enigmatically. "I thank you for your help. How can I reward you?"

"Three things," Peter said. "Forget about me and erase all evidence I was involved in this mess."

"Done," Stark said. "And?"

"You owe me a camera," Peter muttered.

Stark laughed.

**xXx**

Peter and Logan stood outside the front gate to Stark International.

"Thanks, kid," Logan said. "For everything."

"I think we're even," Peter replied. "You've saved my life more than once tonight."

Logan shrugged. "Friends don't keep score, kid."

"Peter," the young man sighed. "Name's Peter."

"Yer so cute," Logan grinned.

"I wish people would quit calling me that," Peter grumbled.

"Well, ya got a good shooter."

Peter looked down at his new camera and smiled. "Yeah. I have a stop to make before I go home, so I'd better get moving."

He started to leave, hesitated. "What are you going to do now?"

"Life's big, kid," Logan said. "Maybe the merchant marine. Always wanted to see the East. Maybe somebody will make me a better offer."

"Stay in touch," Peter said slowly. Logan grinned.

"Git outa here. We'll meet again 'fore you know it. Get in some deep trouble and I'll be bound to show up."

Peter smiled, turned and started walking. Logan watched him go, but he didn't go back inside immediately.

He looked up into the stars, lost in thought. "Take care, kid."

**xXx**

Amy answered the door. "Parker!" she said. "Any idea what time it is?"

"Hey, we're in college, right? I saw lights," Peter said, blowing on his hands. "Mind if I come in?"

"Come on in," Amy said. "MJ, it's the pit crew."

"Ow," Peter said softly. Amy smiled at him and went back in the living room. Mary Jane came out.

"What's up, tiger?" she asked.

"Aunt May wanted me to get pictures of our first date," Peter said with a shrug. "Our camera, well, you know what happened. So, uh, say cheese."

"You're kidding, right?" she said, her eyebrows raised.

Snap.

"Aw c'mon, smile," Peter said. She did. Snap.

"I'm in my sweats," she protested.

"I'll scan the pics into Photoshop and dress you as best I can," Peter said with a grin.

"I don't like where _that_ could go," Mary Jane noted archly.

"Take one of me?" he asked, handing her the camera.

"Amy, why don't you get one of us together?" Mary Jane asked.

"You know, it doesn't matter," Peter said as Amy trudged in. Peter looked into her eyes. "No matter what, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

"Good lovey look," Amy said, too bored to sneer. "Very moon eyed." She snapped the shutter. "Can I go?"

"Thanks a million," Peter said quickly. He took the camera, glanced at Mary Jane, and left.

"Loser," Amy muttered, heading back into the living room.

Mary Jane looked after him, and smiled faintly. "Wow," she said.

**xXx**

"So you have plans after this?" Stark asked casually when Logan returned.

"Merchant Marine?" Logan suggested. "I've always wanted to see the East."

"And if I made you a better offer? I could use a man of your caliber."

They exchanged a long look.

Logan grinned.

**xXx**

Fury was waiting for them, the chopper set down in the park. By the time they reached him, none of them needed to limp.

"So?" Fury said, a cigar clenched in his teeth. "Did you get it?"

"No," Creed said shortly. "The blue teleporter got it."

"Yet you got the turncoat," Fury said, his voice cold.

"We never woulda made it out without her," Creed said fiercely.

"This true?" Fury asked Garrett.

"No," Garrett grunted.

"I see," Fury said. "Mystique, you served under Bryant. Didn't get along. You want another shot under me?"

She nodded.

"Then you have it. Probationary. I've read your file. I'm sure I'll be satisfied."

She smiled.

"Okay, Garrett," Fury said. "Let's go."

They piled into the helicopter, and once they were in the air, Fury nodded to the tech that had been waiting for them inside. "Let's see what kind of parts you got from Stark. At least one phase of the mission went the way it was supposed to."

The tech popped Garrett's forearm open. "This arm was replaced, right?"

"Right," Garrett said.

The tech hesitated. "You mean your other arm, right?"

"No, this one."

"What's this?" Fury asked, leaning over.

The parts all bore the insignia of the Project next to Stark International.

"What?" Fury said, his face growing white and his eye flashing with rage. "Stark already took our plans?"

The tech glanced over at him. "We didn't manufacture these, but it's our technology, sir. It's hardly possible, but… he might have figured out how to reverse engineer and replicate these technologies from Garrett's remaining parts when he arrived."

Creed started to laugh, and he laughed almost loud enough to cover Fury's passionate cursing.

**xXx**

Somewhere miles behind, Stark and Logan raised a glass of wine to toast the Project.

**February 20, 2002**

Strange lay the paper down on the table and gazed out the window. Behind him, Valeria polished the last of the dishes and put them in the cupboard. She closed it, tossed the towel on the dish drainer, and turned to face his back.

"Well?" she said.

"Good job," he mused. "Fascinating material. Your explanation of the condensation of skin and muscle tissue at a molecular level is intriguing." He shook his head. "Normal flesh acting like chain mail. As pliable as mere mortals, but incredibly damage resistant. The notion of microfiber muscular composition affected by solar radiation opens up new avenues of thought. Which leaves an important question," he said, turning to face her. "You've laid out what the power _is_, but not how it _works_. Also, this doesn't address your myriad other abilities."

"For one, my good doctor, I don't _know_ how it works. And for another," she said, arching her eyebrow, "I don't _want_ to know. If I knew, and if others knew, then it would lead them to attempt to duplicate the effects. Is that not the aim of good science?"

"I see your point," he conceded with a nod. "Verification of the principles you put forth in this article would lead to other, for lack of a better term, super people. Those driven to find results like this are seldom altruistic," he said, tapping the paper. "I think you have chosen a wise course. This is plenty of grist for our readers' mills in one go."

"Besides," she said a bit archly, "it would be a shame if I wrote all the material into one article. This way there's more of the story to be told, a bit at a time."

"You wound me," he said with a winning smile. "You make my endless search for the enlightenment of the human soul sound like a moneygrubbing enterprise playing on cheap sensationalism."

"Expensive sensationalism more like," she said, walking to the window and looking out. "After all, this _is_ America, and you are not without bills."

"Indeed," he said, a smile arching his face. "I do in fact have some accounting to do." He rose from the table, and tapped her stack of papers into order. "I'll take this with me and send it to our copy editor."

"Let me know if he finds a mistake," she said with a smile.

"I won't hold my breath," Strange murmured fondly as he left the kitchen.

Valeria watched the sunset with an imperceptible sigh.

**xXx**

Hours later, Doctor Stephen Strange leaned back in his chair and gently squeezed the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. Bills to pay, indeed. But his magazine, The Planetary, was increasing in circulation and in scope as his network of contacts broadened and deepened.

He hesitated. The door to his Sanctum Sanctorum down the hall was touched, but not by Valeria. He waited, listening. It was touched again. Words were spoken.

It opened.

He stood, intrigued. So, a trespasser, and one who was familiar with the Art. With a gesture he called his red coat through the air and slipped it on, then he stepped out into the hallway and looked at the bolted double door at the end of the hall.

Interesting.

The Sanctum no longer held as many critically important articles as it once had, for he had outgrown the crutches of mortal wizards. He was Sorcerer Supreme, and he had redefined the role. However, many useful tomes and divination devices and so on still resided within those armored walls. Things that could be troublesome if released. He stealthily approached the closed door and listened through it with more than his ears.

Someone inside moved, quickly scanning the shelves. Reached for a book.

The door boomed open at the command of its master, the Sorcerer Supreme, whose power was unveiled for just a moment. The interloper spun, startled.

"May I help you?" he asked mildly, his eyes flaring.

The trespasser was a shapely young woman with straight blond hair and an attractive face. Her beauty was marred by cruelty. Her tail whipped around in surprise, and Strange saw that she had goat-like legs ending in cloven hooves.

"I have come to partake of your knowledge, wizard," she said, her voice soft and low. "Partake I will, whether you like it or not. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way."

"By all means," Strange said with a small smile, "I prefer the hard way."

"As you wish," she growled, extending stiff fingers towards him.

He chose not to be moved. Her eyes widened.

At that moment Valeria cleared the top of the stairs, her incredible hearing alerting her to the intrusion. Strange half turned.

A disc of weird light, pale and dark and wreathed in flame, spun up from the floor and swept over Valeria. In less than a heartbeat she was gone.

"She is in my power," the interloper said. "You must do as I say if you wish to see her again."

When Strange turned to face her, the mildness was gone from his face. His features looked as though they were carved from stone.

"You have miscalculated," he said, his voice even and restrained. He gestured, and bands of wilder magics sprang from the ether and snarled around the trespasser, then snapped into her. She tried to scream as eldritch energies swathed her and constricted until she was almost crushed. She felt her bones shift in the grip of the binding.

"Crush me if you dare," the interloper hissed. "You will never find your woman again without me, for I am the sole ruler of the realm where she is now kept. If I do not return she will die."

Silence. "I see," Strange said. He gestured, and she was snapped upright to slowly spin in mid air. "Relax and this won't hurt a bit."

She didn't relax.

It hurt a great deal.

Strange let his mystic probe fade. "You have… so little… formed magic knowledge," he said.

"I have a lot of potential," she gasped, her breath heaving in and out. "My teacher. He failed me. I have… no technique."

"Hence your visit," Strange said. She nodded. "How did you find me?"

"Scrying," she gasped.

"I see," he murmured. "Yet I did not feel your observation."

"I am not a fool," she said, gathering her composure and her breath. "I learned of your existence from others, then I observed you when you were in the midst of distraction. I can have a very light touch."

"Impressive," he said, unimpressed. "I find nothing in your extremely limited arcane knowledge about how you travel back and forth to this other realm."

"It isn't magic," she hissed. "It is… natural talent, if you will. Only I can travel to and from this place, though others can move near it, near enough for me to catch them. I am the key. Damage me and you will never see the woman again. Free me and give me a few books and you can have the woman back."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I do not deal with thieves or terrorists."

"Nasty words," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Would you like to know what is happening to your sweet little woman right now?"


	13. Hostage

**xXx**

Valeria crushed the demon with a slap to its chest, but others came, ranks and ranks of them. She took to the skies, but demons with wings lifted from the mass that clamored below her. She was weakening. She threw a flurry of punches and kicks around her, but the demons piled on oblivious to death and dismemberment. They packed on her, clawing and gouging. Her superhuman toughness resisted the damage, but she felt her strength draining. She looked up at the sky and gasped.

The sky was a slowly roiling sheet of dark flame. No night on Earth had ever looked like this. There were no demons like this on Earth.

Even at night, the planet Earth soaked up the outpoured generosity of the Sun _somewhere_, and Valeria could feel the Sun's energies carried through the atmosphere, protecting and nurturing the life of the world, protecting and nurturing her power.

The sky here was empty. Empty and dark, an eternal twilight.

Her strength faded.

"Strange!" she shouted as she began to sink through the unnatural air under the weight of the demons.

The sky was silent. The carpet of demons below gibbered and shrieked as she drifted closer to their reach.

She scowled, and lashed out in all directions. Demons and bits of demon sprayed through the air before her wrath, but this did not feel like killing. This was different, and life was not sacred here. She was not even certain that the demons were possessed of life. She killed and killed, her martial arts training kicking into high gear. Slashing, parrying, hurling demons from her, she fought desperately.

Her strength was going fast. She punched holes in the demons, pulling out all the stops. They no longer flew apart at her touch.

"STRANGE!" she shouted. "Can you hear me?"

The hissing and squealing of demons was her answer, and she had no breath left for talk.

**xXx**

"I may be ignorant," the interloper snarled, "but I am not powerless. Nor am I a fool."

"Then surrender the woman to me," Strange said, his voice hard, "and I will be lenient. I would prefer to discuss this. We can find another solution. You still have a chance to accomplish through negotiation what will get you killed if you continue with coercion."

"Killed?" she said, her lips curling back in a derisive smile, revealing sharp little teeth. "How final."

"There are," Strange said, his face taking a peculiar and disturbing cast, "worse fates at my disposal."

"It's been a joy," the interloper snapped, jerking in the binding, "but I must go." Suddenly a sheath of silver armor slid up her forearm and flowed over her body. For a moment she was mystically frictionless, and she squirmed free of the binding, into a flaring disc ringed in unhallowed flame. Strange lashed after her, but she was beyond his reach a fraction of an instant before he reached her.

"I think not," he said, his face dead white. "I think not." His lips compressed to a thin determined line of fury, and he lay into his bookshelf and whipped out several tomes. "Not in my house."

He began to hunt.

**xXx**

The demons suddenly withdrew. Valeria stood drenched in their gore, her chest heaving, her clothes in ribbons. She wasn't sure, but she suspected her blood was intermingled with the demon ichor. She turned to face the direction the demons were facing.

A woman stood regarding her from a rise in the tortured rock. Valeria took a good long look at the cloven hooves, goat legs, and shapely torso, her gaze traveling up to the cruel eyes in the pretty face. The woman held a long, glittering sword sheathed in sparkling runes, a weapon of deep magic.

"Hello," the woman smirked. "I am the Swordbearer. Who are you?"

"I am Valeria von Doom," Valeria replied.

"Impressive," the Swordbearer said, nodding at the piles of demons. Already, small imps swarmed on the carrion, wolfing it down.

"Release me at once," Valeria demanded.

"Do I bind you?" asked the Swordbearer, amused. "I see no shackles."

"Return me to Earth," Valeria said, struggling to keep her temper.

"Hm," The Swordbearer said, tapping her lips with one finger. She shrugged. "No." She smiled.

"Then face me in single combat. If I win, you send me home. If you win, I'll stop crushing these demons. They are yours, aren't they."  
"Yes, they are," the Swordbearer said. She beckoned a hulking mass of bone and meat, and she petted its head between its horns. Its eyes rolled back and it gurgled something like a purr, its tongue lolling out. "Each time you slay one, it is reformed in the heart of my realm. You simply cannot win," she said with a smile. "But your offer intrigues me. Very well. Let us fight."

She settled into a ready stance, her sword poised.

"Hardly fair," Valeria said, eyeing the sword.

The Swordbearer shrugged. "I don't intend to lose," she grinned.

"Alright," Valeria said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. It came away sticky. "Let's do this." She trudged up the broken cliff until she was level with the Swordbearer, who shifted and lashed her tail in anticipation.

Valeria sprang, calculated to come up short of her target. The Swordbearer extended the blade to impale her on her own momentum, and Valeria spun, knocking the blade to the side with the flat of one hand and gripping its crosspiece with the other. A simple jerk and the weapon was hers as her foot lashed out and caught the Swordbearer on the hip, knocking her away. Valeria rammed the sword into the stone; it sank in with a ringing clang and slowly swayed.

The Swordbearer faced her, jaw slack with amazement. "That was cool," she said. She smiled and gestured. The sword sank into the rock and sprang free in a jet of gravel at her side. She scooped it up. "Do that again!"

Valeria got a sinking feeling, but she squared off. Those countless hours of training under red sunlight were paying off. Sore muscles, patterns of tiny fang and claw marks, and pulled muscles went away as her disciplined mind locked into combat readiness. "This time," Valeria murmured, "_you_ come to _me_."

A single wicked grin was all she got by way of answer, then the Swordbearer sprang, uncomfortably quick on her cloven hooves. Valeria smiled; the Swordbearer charged her directly. So many ways to end the rush.

And no reason to be gentle.

A quick sidestep carried her just past the blade's path, and her hand snagged the Swordbearer's wrist. Startled, the Swordbearer had no time to react as Valeria swung her around with her own momentum; the Swordbearer was airborne, then she smashed down flat on her back on the rock. Valeria had not surrendered her wrist; she slammed the Swordbearer's elbow down on the rock next to her knee and she twisted the wrist at an angle it was not meant to twist. With a tearing sound, the tendons in her arm gave and her forearm cracked as her elbow just shattered. The Swordbearer screamed, her sword clattering to the stone. Her eyes flared with rage and agony. Valeria sprang up and back as the Swordbearer kicked at her with her sharp cloven hooves.

Valeria stood breathing hard as the Swordbearer rolled over and slowly rose, cradling her shattered arm. "That," the Swordbearer said, "was _wicked_ cool." She shook her arm out, and it reformed itself. The very air and stone around her dimmed, then she was whole again. She grinned. "Bet you can't do that again."

"If you want to learn how to do that throw, there are simpler ways than unpleasant experience," Valeria said, her voice level. "I could show you how to do that particular trick. It isn't hard, once you know the secret."

"Really?" the Swordbearer said, trying to sound superior instead of curious.

"Really," Valeria smiled, blood trickling down her face.

**xXx**

Doctor Strange could have been a statue. He sat focused, his face a study in determination. After what seemed an eternity, he relaxed.

"So," he murmured to himself. "Wherever you took her, neither of you are still on Prime." He stood, his legs trembling slightly with his weight. Even in Astral form, asking every spirit on the way, covering the Earth in a search for a familiar face was deeply draining.

He wiped his face on a towel and took a deep drink of water. Waited for his mind to clear.

"At least it happened here," he murmured to himself. He touched the wall in the corner, and his consciousness scattered through the many layers of protection in the walls and air. Runes and protections that could track a careless teleporter who escaped the space. None could enter, but leaving… that was permitted unless he forbade it, and the direction and distance were remembered by the walls and air.

Strange bent his will to the cipher, burying his intellect in the puzzle, reading the riddle. He got a sense of a distant layer of reality. His brow furrowed.

The trail got close but escaped the range of his senses. He would have to search more… personally. But the planes, that far out… to even scan them sometimes fractured and split them, they could be so unstable. He had taken so long already.

No surrender. He thought of Valeria.

Then he began to split hairs.

**xXx**

Valeria rose out of the pool, feeling oily and slick. At least she was no longer slathered with gore. A fresh change of clothes lay on the rock, and she quickly put on the jeans and the sweater. She was still barefoot.

"Good," the Swordbearer said from her throne. "You're almost the same size as me." The sweater bulged uncomfortably; they were not exactly the same shape. The jeans were quite tight. But the fit was better than the gluey ribbons Valeria had stripped off, thinking incongruously of papier mâché…

"My legs are a bit different." Valeria strolled into the throne room, noting the massive throne and the scrying pool before it. Demons hovered in the shadows, paying court to their young queen.

"Your legs are different at the moment, I'll grant," the Swordbearer said. "But not always." Her legs shifted; she developed human knees before her calves swept down into dainty fetlocks over her cloven hooves. "This is _my_ land, Valeria, and I appear as I choose to appear."

Valeria let that go. "We had best work out what we're going to do when Strange arrives," she said.

"When?" the Swordbearer scoffed. "I think you mean _if_."

"No," Valeria shook her head. "Doctor Strange may be peculiar, but he will not forgive a slight to his privacy, not with a kidnapping on top. He _will_ find you, and when he does, he will kill you."

"Really?" the Swordbearer said smugly. Valeria heard the doubt in her voice.

"What do _you_ think?" Valeria asked. "What would _you_ do?"

"I escaped him once," the Swordbearer said airily, waving her hand. "This is _my_ realm, and I am invulnerable here."

Valeria shrugged. "That is your chance to take. Strange is a man whose power I have not tested to its limits. I would not dare."

"Hamming it up a bit, aren't you," the Swordbearer said, her anger sparked by fear.

For a long moment, Valeria gazed into her eyes. "Maybe it's better this way," she said finally.

"What do you mean?" the Swordbearer asked suspiciously.

Valeria gestured around. "This place is very dangerous for you, Swordbearer," she said quietly.

The Swordbearer blinked once, gripping the arms on her throne. "Have you not been paying attention?" she said rapidly. "I am the _absolute_ ruler of this place!"

"I did not mean you are vulnerable to attack," Valeria clarified, looking around in the shadows, feeling the unpleasant grip of gravity. "I meant you are vulnerable to… weakness."  
"Weakness?"

"Yes," Valeria said, nodding. "How do you know?"  
"How do I know _what_?" the Swordbearer asked, exasperated.

"How do you know what to do with your power?" Valeria asked simply, shrugging. "If you simply sit here and rule the demons, over time you will grow to be more and more like them. Doesn't some part of you long for the open sky? For sunshine, and grass, and beauty?"

"I can make all that and more here."

"Can you?" Valeria asked simply. "Would you force that upon your demons? Or transform them too?"

"What's your point?" the Swordbearer hissed, eyes narrowed.

"Part of you is of this world," Valeria continued. "But part of you… part of you is connected to the Earth. You are able to move back and forth between them, and I think they both have claim to you."

The Swordbearer waited, glaring at Valeria.

"When I came to the Earth, to Prime, I was alone and wounded and afraid," Valeria said quietly. "He gave me a place and the information I needed to get started here. He gave me a gentler way in to the world than raw experience, which is always a harsh teacher."  
"Strange?" the Swordbearer spat. "I would not kneel before him!"

"Nor would I," Valeria said. "But neither would I steal from him. He can be savage when roused."

"You must be his press agent," the Swordbearer sneered.

"As you wish," Valeria shrugged. "Believe what you want to believe. There is a way you can see for yourself." She gestured at the scrying pool.

"Wouldn't that be neat," the Swordbearer said contemptuously. "You think he wouldn't notice?"

"What does it matter?" Valeria shrugged. "You're unbeatable here, right?"

The Swordbearer looked sideways at the pool.

"Think of it," Valeria said. "If you returned to Earth, then for a time you could surrender the heavy burden of rulership of this land." She looked intently at the Swordbearer. "Haven't you missed conversation? Laughter of friends? Is that not why you stopped your fight with me? Because you have heard the voices of demons day in and day out, except for the pale and distant reflections in your pool?"

"Enough!" the Swordbearer shouted, springing lightly up to stand in the seat of her throne. "Enough, already! There is no place for me on Earth! Earth has only betrayal and pain! Here there is no one to betray me but my demons, and no pain that is not more power."

"What if you're wrong?" Valeria whispered. "What if Earth has more to offer? What if you don't discover that until it's too late and you can no longer bring yourself to leave this place? What if _I_ have found something on Earth that you have not?"

"Shut up!" screamed the Swordbearer. "Shut your damnéd mouth! Not another word! _Not another Word!_" and the Binding swirled up in a creaking rush of stone.

Valeria was silent, barely able to breathe.

The Swordbearer slumped in her throne, gnawing at her knuckle, staring at the scrying pool.

"Not another word," she murmured.

**xXx**

Strange sat motionless, blood slowly trickling out of his nose and losing itself in his mustache. So much to cover. Regions of the dimensional reality that no sane wizard dared to tread, and he was skimming too fast, looking for something he wasn't sure he'd recognize.

The lightest touch ghosted through his Sanctum's defenses, and he instantly dropped his search and flashed his consciousness back up the path of the scrying. Slinging through the emptiness of Astral space he followed the desperately retreating touch; it was faster than thought, but his skills and the power of his will shot him through insane thickets of Astral protections between himself and the region he sought.

There. The flat black barrier between the Astral Space and this paltry little dimension. Close to the underspace, a shade of limbo. Fine. She wished to hide here.

Strange could not permit it.

His thought drifted back to the red coat wrapped around his body.

"Come to me," he soothed in a language long forgotten by intelligent races. "Bring my body to me."

An unimaginable distance away, his body folded into itself and left reality for the far reaches of madness, where the body's master awaited.


	14. Grounded

**xXx**

The Swordbearer clutched her chest and trembled. She knew. He was outside. She knew it. She touched the hilt of the sword that was embedded in the stone of this place, and sent a message to all her demons.

Come. Come ready for war.

She trembled.

Faint noise came from the stone pillar around Valeria. The Swordbearer relaxed the stone enough for Valeria's head to be exposed, and for her to draw more than tiny sips of breath.

"He's coming," Valeria said. "Release me. I can speak for you. You can still survive this."

"Shut up!" the Swordbearer snarled. "I will defeat him! You will watch!"

"I will watch," Valeria said.

The sky began to twitch.

"No!" shouted the Swordbearer, whipping her blade up.

The sky tore and fell.

An intolerable moment later, the ground was on fire, the sky was cracked, and Doctor Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, stood before them with mist streaming from his coat and fury smoldering in his eyes.

The Swordbearer whipped her blade up, but she could not think of anything to say.

"This is your last chance," Strange ground out, his voice tight with rage.

"Come thrust your heart on my blade, wizard! My demons will feast on you!" the Swordbearer said, but her voice was thin and she was unsteady on her feet.

No more words.

Strange's arm lashed out, and pure twisting flame tore at her, knocking her off her feet. She flew back through the air, keeping her sword between her and the flame. Armor whipped around her, sheathing her in gleaming eldritch steel.

She darted in at Strange, and he let her come. Springing into the air, she came down with a two handed slash that he easily sidestepped; two of his fingers flexed and the joints snapped; a concussive force whacked across her whole body, hurling her away as though she had been hit by a truck.

He shucked his coat and stood in his shirt sleeves, waiting.

She stood, weaving, drawing on the power of her ruptured realm to fight him. "What _are_ you?" she gasped.

"Your biggest mistake," he said softly.

She roared, a horrible high sound, and leaped at him again. This time his coat whipped up off the ground and slithered around her sword as Strange gestured again, searing flame slashing her sword arm off. Her roar became a scream and she stumbled and fell. Strange grasped the coat.

"You cannot free your sword from my artifact until I choose to allow you to," Strange said. "I am no longer in a lenient mood."

She hissed, a deep and inhuman sound. A new arm bulged and tore out of her stump, and she crouched, ready to rise again. In a minute.

"Strange!" Valeria called weakly. He turned, and gestured. His magic tore the column of stone that bound her to gravel.

"Are you alright?" he asked, tucking the coat and sword under his arm and kneeling by her side.

"No power… here…" she managed. "I feel… so mortal…"

He quickly scanned her. "You will be fine, back on Earth," he said. "Just one more minute to attend to our host." His voice was cold.

"No, Strange," Valeria murmured, gripping his arm. "Wait. She's lost. She's lost in this world and can't find her way back on Prime. She's hiding here, ruling in Hell because she fears serving in Heaven. You can help her, Stephen. You helped me."

"You were different," he said in a low voice. "You were a hero. Still are. I fear she has given in, lost a battle to her inhuman side that she did not dare to begin to fight."  
"If I'm wrong," Valeria said, her grip tightening on his arm, "you can defeat her. But what if I'm right?"

For a long, silent moment he gazed into her eyes.

"What if I'm _right_?" Valeria whispered.

Many factors were weighed in the Sorcerer Supreme's mind in that moment, and many weights tested on his heart and soul. Responsibility. Humanity. Foresight. Hindsight.

He sighed deeply. "It seems I must accept another responsibility," he murmured to himself. "Very well. I accept it." He lay Valeria down and stood, facing the Swordbearer.

"Valeria has pleaded your case," he said. "You first came to my domain seeking knowledge. Do you still seek it?"

A demon army ringed them in, but Strange ignored them.

"Can you teach me the power… the power you showed getting in?" she asked in a small voice.

"Yes," he nodded. "I can, on one condition."

"Condition?"

Strange nodded. "I can teach you this power, but you will then be responsible to me for how you use it."

"Do I have to give up my realm?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"I'm not sure you _can_," Strange replied. "You may keep your realm."

The Swordbearer was quiet for a moment, thinking hard. Valeria stood unsteadily.

"Swordbearer," Valeria said, "this is the chance you have been waiting for your whole life. This is your chance to find your place in the world. You will never find… better friends… than those who stand before you."

Strange glanced at her sideways, then looked back at the Swordbearer and said nothing.

In that deeply painful moment, for the first time, the Swordbearer dared to hope.

"My name is Illyana," she said, her voice trembling. "Please… take me with you."

For a moment Strange's shoulders bowed, as though under a great weight, then he straightened. "Follow me to my Sanctum." He was silent for a moment. "You know the way, I believe."

Valeria smiled.

Then they were gone.

Illyana stood alone, shaking, unable to stop shaking…

**February 21, 2002**

The next morning.

Strange walked into the kitchen. Valeria and Illyana sat at the table. Illyana was bent over her knees.

Putting on shoes.

Strange noticed it was an… unfamiliar task.

"Good morning, ladies," he said.

"Morning," they said. He noticed Illyana was in her early twenties; this was the first he had seen of her when she looked human.

"We're going out today," Valeria said. "Find Illyana an apartment, set her up with the beginning of a life here."

"Excellent," Strange said. _A moment alone?_ he thought to Valeria.

"Go on, I'll be out in a minute," Valeria said to Illyana. The young woman smiled at them and left the kitchen.

"I have my reservations," Strange said quietly to Valeria.

"Let me do this," Valeria said earnestly. "You brought me in, made me feel welcome in this world. Let me be that for her."

Strange was silent. Then he slowly nodded. Valeria flashed him a quick smile, then headed for the hallway.

She hesitated in the doorway, turning back. "Would you? Would you have killed her?"

"No," Strange said. He paused. "Did you think I would?"

"How could I be sure?" she asked softly.

Strange slowly sighed. "I guess… I guess you can't know. About anyone."

She smiled at him uncertainly, then sighed. She moved out the front door.

"Come on," she said. "Daylight's burning."

"Indeed," Strange murmured as he watched them through the window. Slowly he turned and mounted the stairs, headed for his Sanctum.

First order of business for the day. Triple protections on the Sanctum. Beef them up to where they used to be. Do some research on his guest, see what he could find out about her past. And then? He moved into his Sanctum.

He looked at the floor and saw the print of a cloven hoof. His face darkened.

And then… he would deal with "then" when it arrived.

Strange looked out at the sky through his skylight and contemplated the future.

Not far away, Illyana laughed.


	15. Unusual Alliances 1

_**This tale was written by Kyle, a friend of mine who wanted to write in my setting. I have to include this because the parts he included in this story have lasting effects in the overall scheme. Enjoy!**_

Unusual Alliances

by Kyle

**February 25, 2002**

"How you like my tie, petite?" Remy tugged at the bow tie that felt like it was cutting off the blood flow to his head. He was not accustomed to the rigors of formal wear.

"It's fine, sugah." The tall woman at Remy's side smiled brilliantly. "You look great." She frowned for a moment. "But must you wear the sunglasses?"

Remy pushed the shades down his nose to reveal his red irises surrounded entirely by black. "But de sunglasses make de outfit, mademoiselle." He winked at her slowly before pushing his glasses back into place.

The lady rolled her eyes at him and shook her head. "Whatevah. Let's just get to the party, okay darlin?" Her smile was dazzling.

Remy returned her smile with a rakish grin. His eyes hungrily followed the curves of her body. She was tightly wrapped in a luxurious scarlet gown that swirled about her feet and buttoned close beneath her chin. Matching gloves extended up the length of her arms and meshed with the sleeves of her dress. Her dark hair spilled across her satin-sheathed shoulders, offset by the streak of brilliant white down the center.

"Shall we, ma chere?" Remy extended his arm with a flourish.

His lady placed her gloved hand on his extended arm. She allowed Remy to guide her up the steps to the grand archway and its glossy oaken doors. They paused at the entrance while Remy pulled a small envelope from his jacket pocket and presented it to the white clad doorman. The somber man examined the note closely before bowing slightly. "Welcome to the Hellfire Club, Mr. LeBeau. I hope you and your companion have a delightful evening."

"How on earth did you get an invitation to the most exclusive club in New York, Remy?" the lady asked as they passed through the immense entryway and into the grand ballroom beyond.

Remy's eyes twinkled over the top of his sunglasses. "I have my ways, chere." He took her hand and bowed gracefully as they stepped onto the polished hardwood dance floor. "Shall we dance?"

The pair swirled across the dance floor to the majestic music that floated down from the orchestra on the balcony above.

"So, petite, what name am I to call you by tonight?" Remy twirled her out along the length of his arm before reeling her back in, tight against his side.

She smiled at him, allowed him to drop her into a graceful dip. "Nice try Remy. You're not going to wheedle it out of me."

Remy casually spun her across the dance floor. "Perhaps I should make up a name for you, then. Let's see… What do you think about 'Marie?' Does that suit you, chere?"

"Call me whatevah you want, sugah." The beautiful woman gave him a dazzling smile. "It won't make it my real name. The closest you're gonna get is Rogue."

Remy sighed as he guided Rogue off the dance floor. "Some day, ma cherie, you are going to slip." He gave her a wicked grin. "And I intend to be there when you do."

As they searched for an available table, Remy pulled a long black pouch from his jacket pocket. He produced a glittering diamond studded necklace from a different pocket, along with matching earrings, several shining gold bracelets, and various rings encrusted with rare jewels. He slipped them all into the pouch and replaced it in its original pocket, right over his heart.

"Remy!" Rogue stared at him, shocked. "You didn't dare!"

Remy raised his eyebrows. "Dare what, petite? Unburden a few of the social elite of the worries of looking after such extravagant trinkets? Don worry, ma chere. I din relieve them of anyting dey can't replace." Rogue's disapproving glare did not alter. Remy shook his head. "Dis is what I do, chere. It's my job. I'm a thief. What can I say?" He shrugged. " I have to obey my nature."

Remy deposited Rogue at a table and straightened his tux jacket. "I'll be just a moment, petite. I have something to take care of in the gentleman's room."

Rogue watched him suspiciously. "Should I be prepared to run when you come back?"

Remy grinned. "It may not be a bad idea at that, cherie."

He left her sitting at the table and crossed to the door discreetly hidden down a side hallway. He pushed through the door marked with a stylized male figure and nodded casually to the attendant within before crossing the marble tiles and finding the correct stall. Remy latched the door behind him and glanced up at the ceiling. The stall he had chosen was situated directly beneath an air vent. Remy stepped lightly up onto the toilet and glanced across the top of the stall for other occupants. Seeing no one other than the old attendant nodding away in the corner, Remy turned his attention to the grate above. His delicate fingers grasped one of the screws holding the grate tight. He felt the potential in the screw, felt its capacity for motion, and urged a tiny amount from potential to reality. The screw twisted beneath his grasp and quickly worked its way out. He repeated the process with the rest of the screws and eased the grate up into the shaft above. Remy grasped the sides of the opening, and with a deft tug and flip he joined the grate in the airshaft.

**xXx**

Shaw ground out the butt of his cigar in the heavy ashtray atop the mahogany desk. He looked up and nodded as his compatriots entered the well-furnished office. Emma Frost glided imperiously across the room in her white satin gown, which exposed ample amounts of her pale creamy flesh. Magnus entered behind her. His sharp black suit offset his pure white hair. Finally, Wyngarde strolled in, stroking his sideburns. Snatches of music drifted in from the ballroom below before the door shut behind them.

"Geraint has arrived, Sebastian. He'll be joining us in a moment." Magnus' voice carried none of the wavering weakness that would normally accompany his age.

"Has he brought the test subject?" Shaw asked.

Magnus nodded.

Emma's eyes gleamed maliciously. "I'm fascinated to see what he's done with her. If successful, this research could be quite useful."

"Don't get too eager, Frost." Shaw reprimanded. "The Council will decide how and when to implement the results of P.S.I's tests."

Emma scowled at his back. "Are you ready to do your part, Jason?" She turned her attention to the weasely man across the room.

Wyngarde lounged idly in an overstuffed chair. He pulled a thin cigarillo out of his coat pocket and lit it. "Have no worries about me, my dear. Everything is going according to plan. The Council," he gave a mocking half bow to the room's other occupants without leaving his seat, "will not be disappointed."

"Are all the variables accounted for?" Magnus frowned at the man's flippant attitude.

Wyngarde glanced covertly at the air duct in the ceiling before answering. Finally, he waved his hand idly; smoke trailed thickly from the cigarillo dangling between his fingers. "Everything is in place. We're ready to go."

"Very well," Shaw said. He pushed a button on his desk. "Show Mr. Geraint and his guest in please, Ms. Walker."

A moment later, a snippet of music floated into the office as the door opened. A steel haired man in a dark suit entered. He nodded to the room's occupants. He escorted a dark haired beauty, dressed in a shining blue-black gown. Her face modeled the delicate features of a British aristocrat. The cuffs gripping her wrists held her securely despite their delicate appearance. The man shut the door behind them.

"Geraint." Shaw addressed the new arrival. "Glad you could make it."

Geraint smiled, but his eyes did not. "The Inner Council summoned," he nodded to Shaw, Magnus and Frost. "It is wise to obey."

"Indeed," Shaw replied. He took another cigar from a box on the desk. "We are eager to see your progress. The Hellfire Club would hate to think that its investment was not going to pay off." Subtle malice seethed from his words.

Geraint was not fazed. "I think you'll find P.S.I.'s progress quite pleasing, Mr. Shaw." He gestured towards the woman at his side. "I have brought along the most recent prototype of our program for your approval."

Shaw pulled a gold plated rectangle from one of the desk drawers, and used it to clip the end off his cigar. "Ms. Frost, would you do the honors?" He glanced up at the platinum blonde at his side.

Emma's smile was filled with malicious glee. "I would be delighted." She crossed swiftly to the other woman and grasped the captive's head firmly between her hands. The other woman did not resist.

Emma's eyes fluttered closed for a moment. Time ticked past and the men watched with anticipation while Frost remained in deep concentration. Finally, her eyes snapped open and her hands dropped to her sides. "Fascinating, Mr. Geraint. Fascinating indeed." She returned to her place at Shaw's side. "It appears you have made amazing strides."

"Why don't you enlighten the rest of us as to Mr. Geraint's progress," Magnus rumbled.

Emma graced the older man with a sneer. "For the unenlightened, Mr. Geraint has managed to completely dominate Ms. Braddock. All traces of her former life are repressed, completely inaccessible. However, her abilities have been greatly enhanced. Truly an exceptional accomplishment, as Ms. Braddock was quite powerful to begin with."

Geraint produced his cold smile again. "Thank you. We have worked hard to come this far." He put a hand on the captive woman's shoulder, glanced into her vacant, staring eyes. "With her mind a clean slate, she should be easily reprogrammed. She is scheduled to enter training immediately, and when completed, she will be ready for the Council to deploy as they see fit."

Emma leaned eagerly across the desk. "And are you able to reproduce these results?"

Geraint nodded. "As a matter of fact, we have several candidates in mind to bring into the program. As soon as this prototype has completed the training and we can evaluate our results, we will begin the next phase of the project."

"Excellent." Shaw lit his cigar and took a swift pull before continuing. "We will continue as planned, then." He released the heavy smoke in a thick stream. "Continue your research, with the full backing of the Hellfire Club. We will convene at your facility in upstate New York to reevaluate when you have completed the next phase."

Geraint nodded. "P.S.I. appreciates the Council's continued support. Good evening." With a quick nod to the Council, he guided his charge out the door and was gone.

Silently, a shadow shifted in the airshaft above and disappeared.

Once the door shut behind Geraint, Shaw turned to Wyngarde. "Was the ruse successful?"

Jason smiled his thin-lipped sneer. "Our visitor saw what the rest of you saw." He flicked ash off the tip of his cigarillo. "As far as our uninvited guest was concerned, Ms. Braddock stood here, bound and submissive. Only myself and Emma could tell that in reality she was nothing more than that waif of a maid you keep on staff." Wyngarde shook his head. "I must say, I still don't understand the point of this silly charade."

Shaw glared sternly at the other man. "It was important that Ms. Braddock appeared as she was prior to her recent… modifications. For the bait to be taken, she had to look familiar to our uninvited guest." He glanced at the other occupants of the room. "You all know what to do. Follow the plan and everything will work out nicely." His smile was that of a wolf sizing up its prey.

**xXx**

Remy cut swiftly across the ballroom to where Rogue sat, twirling her wine glass distractedly.

"Come, petite, it's time for us to go." He grasped her arm and guided her to her feet with gentle and insistent pressure.

Rogue glowered at him, but allowed herself to be guided towards the doors. "Remy, you disappear on me and now that you're back, you want to leave? I thought we came here to dance!"

"But of course, cherie," Remy muttered distractedly without slowing down. "Unfortunately, someting has come up." He stopped. With a swift tug, Rogue was pressed against him, his arms about her tightly. "I'll have to take a rain check on another dance. But don't worry, cheri, Remy LeBeau always honors his debts."

Rouge pushed away from him. "Whatevah, sugah. I'll believe it when I see it." She grabbed at her flowing skirts and strode swiftly towards the door. "If we're goin', let's go."

Remy sighed. After admiring her retreating posterior for a moment, he followed her out of the club.

**February 26, 2002**

Logan grunted as he cracked the ax through the log. Clear, place, strike. He clung to the clean simplicity of the task.

Whack!

The physical labor wasn't enough to tire him, but it stretched his muscles and cleared his often-chaotic thoughts.

Whack!

Eventually, Logan realized he'd reached the end of the woodpile. He gave the ax one last swing and left it protruding from the stump that served as a chopping block. After stacking the chopped wood neatly, he grabbed an armful and headed back to the rough log cabin across the clearing.

Halfway back, he stopped. His nostrils flared as they tasted the scents that floated to him on the afternoon breeze. After a moment, he continued his trek to the cabin. Logan placed is armload of firewood in the bin out front and pushed though the door into the shelter's dark interior. He was not surprised to find someone waiting for him.

"What is it you need?" he growled at the tall, thin visitor.

Remy gave Logan one of his most winning smiles. It didn't have any effect on the shorter man's stern expression. "I'm hurt, mon ami. You ever tink dat maybe I just stop by to say hello?"

Logan snorted. He opened an old, yellowed box sitting atop the rough hewn table that dominated the cabin's one room. He withdrew a thick cigar. "Since when do you make social calls?"

Remy dropped his casual façade. "I need your help, Logan."

Logan ripped off the end of the cigar with his oversized canines and lit up. "You? Need help? I thought you always played it solo."

Remy shrugged. "Dat's my nature, mon ami. Dis is different. You ever heard of a place called P.S.I.?"

Logan nodded. "'Parapsychological Studies Institute.' Had a couple a run ins with them in the past." He eased himself into a chair at the table and tilted back on two chair legs. His boots crossed on the edge of the table. "Why?"

Remy watched Logan for a moment before he replied. "They've got Braddock," he said quietly.

"Last I heard, she was workin for em," Logan shrugged. "Somethin about a research project. None a my business, so I left her to it." His stiff tone implied that he did not approve.

Remy shook his head. "She's no working for them, Logan. They have her captive."

Logan's eyes narrowed suspiciously. He waited for the Remy to elaborate.

"I tink they brainwash her or someting like dat." Remy tapped his own head for emphasis. "It din sound like she was a willing participant to me."

Logan shook his head. "No. Betsy wouldn't let anyone go messin' around in her head. You're sure about this, Cajun?"

Remy crossed himself. "I swear to God, mon ami. It's truth."

"What did you have in mind?" Logan pulled deeply on his cigar, certain he knew the other man's answer. He was not disappointed.

**February 27, 2002**

"Yer late," Logan said as soon as Remy's motorcycle engine died.

"Bonjour to you, too, mon ami," Remy said, dismounting. "I had some last minute tings to take care of."

Logan slid off the hood of his truck, dropped his cigar, and crushed out the last glowing ash with his toe. "While I was waitin, I did a little recon. The facility is the other side a the hill." He pointed through the surrounding woods to the distant mound of earth to the south. "Electrified fencing all the way around, topped with barbed wire. Guard patrols, video cameras, the whole bit."

Remy grinned as he shrugged out of his leather jacket. "Piece of cake, non?" Beneath his jacket he wore a tight, matte black bodysuit that highlighted his trim muscular form. He shoved his clothes into the saddlebags of the bike and pulled out a stiff, flexible armor vest. It form-fitted to his torso as he shrugged it on.

Logan eyed him with curiosity. "Looks like yer preparin ta fight an army."

"Never hurts to be prepared, non? I don't have the benefit of accelerated healing to keep me alive." Remy glanced pointedly at Logan's own outfit. Dirt caked boots poked out from beneath well-worn jeans, which were topped by a flannel shirt. A cowboy hat dismally failed to restrain his wild mane of dark hair.

Logan shrugged. "Point for you. Sure you can handle this?"

Remy pulled another object from the opposite saddlebag. He snapped the staff to full extension and gave it a practiced twirl. "Noting I haven't tangled wit before, mon ami. Besides." He slipped a pack of playing cards from a pouch at his waist. He shuffled the stack from one hand to the other with practiced ease. Pulling the bottom card from the deck, he flipped it over for Logan to see. The Ace of Spades. "I've got an Ace up my sleeve." The card disappeared beneath his palm. The rest of the cards quickly followed.

Logan grunted. "Let's get this thing started."

They slipped into the woods and separated.

**xXx**

"What have we here."

The man peered intently through his light enhancing binoculars. He knelt back among the foliage of the surrounding forest, his vision focused on the two forms sneaking closer to the compound in the clearing. He watched silently as one approached the nearby fence while the other continued moving around to the far side of the facility.

Without pulling his gaze from the binoculars, he slipped a headset on and flipped the activation switch.

"Status report, Forge," he muttered.

"What happened to radio silence, boss-man?" the radio squawked in his ear.

"Never mind that. How soon will you be ready for extraction?" He moved the binoculars to follow the figure that lurked close to the fence on the near side of the facility.

"I'm almost to the control room. What's up, Cable?" the com chattered.

Cable turned his binoculars as new movement caught his eye. Through the thick tangle of woods, he could make out headlights approaching on the distant road. As they moved closer, the lights resolved into a limousine approaching the front gate of the compound.

"Looks like we've got some new visitors," Cable said to the radio.

"This just gets better and better," the voice whispered back.

Cable watched the vehicle pass through the gates and out of view beyond the buildings surrounding the courtyard on the far side.

"Just stick to the plan," Cable muttered to his partner. "And hurry up about it. Let's get this done before things get messy."

He switched his gaze back to the infiltrator he could still see. The sullen glow from Cable's left eye cast eerie shadows across his craggy features.

"Got it boss. I'm on it. Forge out." The static died.

Cable cut the radio and returned to his silent vigil.


	16. Unusual Alliances 2

**xXx**

Geraint stepped into the dark office and waited patiently. The tall chair behind the desk was turned with its back to the door. Its occupant gazed out the vast bay window that formed the back wall of the office. The window gave a spectacular view of the nearby woods, only slightly marred by the security measures about the perimeter. Silvery light from the night sky was the only interruption of the inky shadows that coiled about the heavy desk and lay thick across the carpeted floor.

"Yes, Geraint?" A soft voice came from behind the chair.

"Your contact from the Inner Circle has arrived, sir," Geraint said to the back of the chair.

"Yes… I know." The voice was just loud enough to be heard. "Inform him that my presence is not required for the demonstration. Tell him I have been unavoidably detained. I will speak with him later."

"Of course, sir. I will handle the demonstration personally." Geraint nodded curtly to the seat back. "We have not received word of the… other visitors as of yet. I will inform you as soon as we have sign of their arrival."

"Don't bother," the man in the chair said. Geraint could see one hand gesture idly at the scene through the window. "They have already arrived. They will be making their presence known any moment. Prepare the demonstration. I will be along later."

Geraint did not question. "Yes sir." He left his master to his thoughts.

**xXx**

Logan slipped up alongside the fence. This close, he could smell the current charging the air. Ambient static crackled in his unruly hair.

He examined the fence closely. His mind noted the transformers attached to the chain link fence at regular intervals, the concertina wire wrapped densely across the top. The whole length of fence was charged, but there were no alarms attached to detect a disruption in the current.

_Snikt_.

His claws extended with a thought. Logan gritted his teeth at what he knew came next. The standard grade metal of the fence parted easily beneath the force of his adamantium claws. Power surged down the blades, through the meat of his hand. It vibrated along his metal-laced skeleton for just a moment. Electricity seared its course through his flesh. The shock reverberated off his bones and radiated out every follicle of every hair. His entire body was alive with energy and frying from the inside out.

After a moment, the pain subsided to a bearable level. He carefully crept through the slit fence.

He smelled them before they arrived. Twin Dobermans howled their fury at an interloper on their turf. They charged across the yard at Logan, teeth bared in feral snarls. Logan met them with his own snarl. He flashed his canines and let the growl rumble up from deep within his chest. The ferocious dogs shuddered to an abrupt halt before Logan. The three circled each other warily, sniffing carefully at each other's scent to take measure of the opposition. Finally, the dark dogs bowed their heads with a submissive whine, and pushed up against Logan's outstretched hands. With an affectionate, pat he sent the pair scurrying back across the yard.

A heartbeat later, Logan joined the shadows stretching across the grass perimeter. He worked his way along the wall of the building until he reached the northeast corner of the facility. From his position of relative safety in a shadowed juncture between two buildings, he surveyed the field. Above him, a security camera whined quietly as it arced back and forth.

Dead center in its field of vision, a tall guard tower stood at the northeast corner of the fence. Logan counted three figures in the cupola perched atop the sturdy wooden struts. The three focused most of their attention on the other side of the fence, expecting any trouble to come from outside rather than within. Logan smiled.

"Time for a good old fashioned distraction," he muttered to himself. Logan launched himself with ferocious speed across the intervening space to the tower supports.

Yellow sodium light glinted off Logan's razor sharp claws as they snapped out of their housings. He released a guttural howl before launching himself at the nearest support. Within moments, the thick pole ripped to splinters beneath his onslaught. The structure above shuddered. Cries of surprise echoed down. Red dots sprang to life across the ground and tracked their way to Logan's broad back. He paid them no heed as he slashed at the connecting beam between the shorn pillar and the next support. Rifles stuttered to life above and dirt sprayed about Logan's feet, but he quickly sprinted beneath the structure where the guns of the guards above could not shoot him.

He listened for a moment to the cracking groan of over-stressed wood. One more beam ought to do it. A quick double fisted slash, and another pillar erupted into splinters. The entire tower shuddered once, then released a terrible groan and began to topple inward. Logan leaped and rolled as the remaining columns snapped beneath the weight of the cupola and toppled the whole tower to earth.

As the shattered bones of the ruined tower settled, Logan leaped onto the lopsided roof of the cupola and loped up to the side, which now formed its sagging top. He was dimly aware of the wail of alarms in the distance, but his senses focused on the cries of the guards within the rubble. One lay pinned beneath a ruptured support, unable to free himself from its immense weight. Another whimpered piteously from beneath a heap of collapsed roofing. Logan noted that one leg bent at a sharp, unnatural angle. He judged that the guard would live, if not walk normally again. The third guard was nowhere to be seen. Logan sniffed experimentally, scenting for him.

Twin blooms of pain erupted in his lower back. Logan growled in rage and twirled towards the source of the staccato gunfire. The remaining guard pushed broken slats away and lurched free of the wreckage. Blood streamed down the left side of his face, but the soldier ignored it and kept his assault rifle trained on Logan.

"That's low, bub. Shootin a man in the back," Logan growled. He could already feel his body forcing the hot lead slugs from his flesh. "Still, you don't have to die. Put the gun down and you can walk away."

He leaped as the guard's finger squeezed the trigger. Logan's claws sliced through the barrel of the gun. The weapon fell to pieces at the guard's feet. He didn't notice, his attention preoccupied with the claws slashing through his body armor and deep into his chest. A look of shock registered on the soldier's face as he slipped free of the claws and slumped to the ground.

Logan leaped free of the rubble and sprinted towards the nearest wall of the facility.

"Better get a move on, Remy. I hope all this ain't fer nothin." Logan launched himself up the side of the building.

Unseen, dark shapes separated from the shadowed recesses of the building and circled around behind him.

**xXx**

Remy waited patiently atop a rise overlooking the southern perimeter fence. He bided his time by watching the patterns of the guards as they passed along the inside of the electrified barrier.

Soon, a horrendous wrenching rumble from the north rewarded his patience. Guards lurched to a halt and muttered into their radios before they scurried across the campus towards the disturbance.

"As good as you promised, mon ami," Remy muttered with a smile. He reassured himself that the guards had all taken flight, then he hurtled down the rise towards the fence. Scant feet before he crashed headlong into the electrified chain link, Remy thrust his staff into the hard earth and vaulted high above the razor sharp wire. He executed a tight flip in the air and landed softly on his feet. A quick glance around assured that his maneuver had gone unnoticed, and he continued across the field to the high walls of the facility beyond.

Remy ignored the outbuildings and made straight for the central structure. With practiced ease, he avoided the security cameras and the few guards who remained at their posts. Prowling around the building's base, he finally found the object of his search. Steam rose lazily through the slats of the heating duct vent.

Remy smiled. "Easy as pie."

In moments, the grate was free. He slipped into the darkness beyond.

**xXx**

Logan gripped the edge of the building and muscled his body onto the flat roof above. He trotted past the modern day crenelations of air conditioning units and power generators that studded the rooftop.

The hair prickled tightly across his back, and his senses flared. Logan lurched to a stop.

Black shapes materialized from behind the roof's many obstructions. They formed a loose circle around him.

"Ninja?" Logan grunted. "Must be protectin somethin mighty important." The dark clad warriors slowly closed in. Ninjato slid free of their sheaths, and paired sais twirled in anticipation.

"Looks like you fellas mean business." Logan eyed his silent adversaries. "Alright then, let's get this over with."

_Snikt_.

Claws slipped free once again from their housings as Logan hurled himself at the ninja unfortunate enough to be closest at hand. The warrior raised his sword to ward off the attack, but Logan's backhanded slash shattered the blade into metallic splinters. His claws slid easily beneath the ninja's ribcage, then Logan tore him open.

He tasted the hot salty blood spattered across his face and smiled. There was nothing of humanity in that fierce grin, only the pure visceral joy of the kill. Another ninja leaped at him, his sword slicing through the air towards Logan's head. The feral beast watched in slow motion as the gleaming arc of metal descended in a shuddering crash across the top of his skull. Metal rasped against metal as the ninja withdrew the blade. Logan followed the retreating motion of the blade with the advancing motion of his claws. He impaled the warrior with two fistfuls of adamantium.

Blood gushed from the slash across Logan's scalp and turned his vision red. He gave himself to the fury that boiled from his veins.

He leaped between the next pair of attackers, his claws rending first metal, then cloth, then flesh. The two toppled away and Logan whirled towards the next threat. Another black clad shape stood calm before him, sword leveled at Logan's throat. He batted the sword away with a backhanded strike, driving his claws towards the ninja's abdomen.

Logan lurched in surprise; his left arm was caught. A black cord wrapped around his forearm, held by one of the ninja. Another cord lashed out and coiled around his right forearm with a snap. The ninja on the other end pulled the line taught; Logan growled as his arms threatened to pop out of joint.

Logan twisted his torso sharply, pulling both arms close to his chest and hauling the ninja off balance. Swiveling, he lashed out with both arms. With a deft twist of his wrists, his claws severed the bindings with a snap. The two ninja lurched back, and Logan leaped past them towards higher ground. He scrabbled his way up the sloping roof of the central building. At its pinnacle, a long panel of glass formed a sunroof to a spacious chamber below. Logan eyed the dirty glass warily, then smiled.

The ninja were swift to follow They surrounded Logan once again. Black cords lashed at him. Logan reached out and deliberately grabbed hold of each line as it snaked towards him. Two, then three, then four lines wound tightly around his arms and torso. He twisted his arms around each cord, pulling in as much slack as he could before the ninja at the other end pulled the cord taught. The fifth cord found its mark, and then the sixth. Satisfied that they had him restrained, the ninja began pulling sharply at each cord, squeezing him, trying to pull him apart.

Logan released the slack he had gathered in the lines as he leaped. His claws led the way. The glass pane of the sunroof shattered, and he plummeted to the floor several stories below. Unprepared for his jump and his weight, the ninja were yanked off the roof by their cables, following Logan through the skylight.

Logan hit the floor. Hard. Flesh collided sharply with concrete. His skull clanged dully as it smacked against the unyielding surface. Ninja rained down with sickening crunches. Logan's adamantium laced bones didn't shatter with the impact. The ninja were not so lucky. Logan stood, wiped the blood from his face, and quickly shed the lines binding him to the twisted corpses.

He froze, every muscle suddenly tense. His olfactory sense revved into overdrive. The scent that drifted to his nose was achingly familiar; the crispness of newly turned pages, a gentle cleansing shampoo, the scent of herbal tea. Yet there was another layer atop the familiar, smothering out the scents that hinted at hidden memories. The intoxicating smell of exotic spices, the acrid burn of sweat. And death. Death permeated the entire mixture and sent cold shivers down Logan's spine.

He turned towards the source of the scent. Standing amidst the fallen bodies of the ninja was a tall Asian woman. Her long black hair was swept away from her sharp, delicate features. It cascaded down her back. Her lithe form, taut with muscle, was wrapped in the black garb of the ninja. Her black eyes pierced Logan and seemed to burrow deep into his soul.

The woman did not look familiar to him, but a flash of recognition hit him as Logan recalled the familiar root of the scent.

"Betsy? Is… is it you?" he mumbled, stunned. His hands dropped to his side.

The woman ninja pivoted and snapped a savage kick into Logan's neck. Black spots swarmed across Logan's vision.

She followed up with a swift barrage of punches. Her knee snapped up and rammed into his groin, and Logan collapsed to the ground in shocked agony. The last thing he saw before the darkness overwhelmed him was her foot descending towards his face.

**xXx**

Huge incandescent light fixtures flickered to life high above, nestled among the pipes, wires and heating ducts that crisscrossed the chamber's lofty ceiling.

"Well done, Ms. Braddock. Well done." Magnus stepped out towards the black clad woman in the center of the room, Geraint at his side. Geraint waved to a squad of attendants. They rushed an elaborate gurney across the floor, lifting Logan's short and bulky form and strapping him to it. They locked down each deadly hand with metal bands across the wrists.

"You've changed quite a bit since the last time I saw you," Magnus observed, watching Braddock.

She nodded, flushed with the excitement of combat.

"The question that remains for me," Magnus added, "is how your psionic talents dovetail with ninja training. I want to see how that works."

Geraint smiled. "You will have ample opportunity to witness the extent of Ms. Braddock's abilities. This was simply a demonstration of the combat training we have been able to instill in the subject using the rigorous techniques of the ninja clan." Geraint walked over to the gurney and checked each restraint to ensure Logan was as secure as possible. "This fellow is a fugitive, actually. He's had some mental tampering done to him, and he's cunning enough to elude one of our rivals for years. He will serve as a test subject so you can see how Braddock's mental interrogation techniques work. By the time she's done with him, he'll tell us everything he knows about his former masters."

"And what will become of him once the demonstration is complete?" Magnus asked.

Geraint suppressed a chuckle. "We sell him back to our rivals," he said. He glanced sharply upward, his eyebrows contracting. Magnus turned, eyes searching, some other less obvious sense probing.

He nodded, and reached out his hand. Energy throbbed through the air about him. Magnus closed his hand to a fist, and a section of the metal heating duct wrenched free and floated down to the floor. The tube landed with a clang, and Magnus flexed his hand. The tube squeezed tight in the middle and both ends ripped free to reveal Remy bound tight within the rent metal duct.

"I see I am just in time for the party," Remy said with a ready smile.

Braddock was at his side in a moment. She knelt by his head and pulled sharply on his long brown hair. Remy winced but would not cry out. "Apologize," she murmured.

"My most humble apologies, monsieurs," Remy quickly spat out as Braddock wrenched on his hair again. "An I apologize in advance for any damages my friends and I may cause when we bust out of dis place."

"Silence him," Geraint sighed.

Braddock's fist cracked into his temple, and Remy's skull rebounded from the hard floor. Consciousness fled.

**xXx**

Forge crouched in the corner of the dim room. The terminals, monitors and control panels that encrusted the wall cast their own fitful illumination on the cold metal floor. The display lights flitted across Forge's Native American features as he woke the machines from their lethargy. Once the central processor hummed to life, Forge sat before the main terminal and got to work.

He pulled the glove off his left hand. He flexed the plastic and metal replacement for his lost appendage, then pulled two filaments from a compartment built into the back of the hand. He snapped the filaments into jacks on the control panel and data began to flash past on the monitor at an incredible pace.

While the computer whirred and electronic data flowed from the main databanks into Forge's memory storage, he looked up at the camera in the ceiling. Its one-eyed gaze fixed directly on him. Forge pulled a flat metal pad from his belt pouch and lit up the display. Camera feeds from all over the facility registered on the small pad, and Forge reassured himself that the cloaking device that hid him from the security systems was still in effect.

The computer beeped, alerting him that the download was complete.

Forge snapped to attention as boots echoed down the hall to his left.

"Just in time," he muttered to himself. He pulled his filaments out of the main terminal. The marching feet grew louder as they progressed down the corridor. Forge swore to himself. He left the computers running and dodged into the opposite corridor. Away from his extraction point.

**xXx**

Logan awoke to nothingness.

He sniffed cautiously to gather clues about his location. Nothing.

He opened his eyes. Again, nothing.

His ears were silent, and the chill that should have prickled the hairs of his body did not.

There was only thought.

Only Logan.

His thoughts formed into a vision of himself, floating in the nothingness, alone. No, not alone. Something prowled through the void. Something visceral and lethal, something all too familiar. The thing materialized. Logan stared at himself, at a dark shadow of himself. Huge, muscled, weirdly alien and familiar.

The thing leaped, canines bared in a silent howl. Claws burst from its hands as it crashed into Logan. He fought back with adamantium; the shafts of metal rammed through his chest. The beast grinned, feral, as the claws lanced through Logan's heart and his lifeblood gushed over both of them.

Finally, a sensation. Pain. Unimaginable pain.

His scream went unvoiced.


	17. Unusual Alliances 3

**xXx**

Remy felt pain. Not the throbbing sting in the back of his head, or the ache of his swollen cheek. Those were inconsequential. No, this was a new pain, sharp and insistent. It pulled at his wrists and radiated down through the muscles of his arms.

Remy looked up. He hung from a chain that looped under his handcuffs, suspending him by his wrists. His feet dangled several feet off the floor.

He appeared to be in a storage area. The center of the room had been cleared away; the boxes, crates and miscellaneous equipment had all been stacked along the walls and in the corners to ensure that Remy could gain no foothold.

He smiled. No problem.

A key turned in the locked door. His body went limp. He allowed his head to loll across his chest, but he listened intently.

The door squealed as it opened. Heavy boots clunked across the concrete slab floor. A burst of static, then the guard said, "Check. The prisoner is secure." The voice was very close. "I'm going to continue my patrol, over." The radio clicked off and Remy heard the boots twist in an about face. His eyes snapped open. The guard stood immediately before him, headed for the door.

Remy's muscles tensed and flexed. He whipped his legs up and wrapped them around the guard's neck. Startled, the man grabbed futilely at Remy's legs, now locked tight in a chokehold. Remy squeezed; the guard's hands went limp.

Remy let the guard slump to the floor, unconscious. Then he swung his legs forward, swaying. He whipped them back, building his momentum. His wrists screamed at the abuse, but Remy pulled hard on the chain and swung his legs up to rest on the girder above. Remy sighed with the release of pressure on his throbbing wrists. He rested a moment, dangling by his legs from the beam. Blood rushed to his head, fueling his already surly headache.

Remy pinched one link of the chain that had suspended him. He felt the energy lying patiently in the metal, just waiting for him to release it.

He did. The link burst apart in a violent flash of light.

Remy let his legs slip free of the girder. He tucked into a tight roll and landed lightly on his feet. He quickly found the manacle keys on the guards belt. Moments later he was free and out the door.

**xXx**

"How are we doing?" Geraint asked. He stared out past the lab technicians where they sat at their consoles. The control room was separated from the containment chamber by a thick pane of protective glass.

The containment chamber featured a coffin-like cylinder that was wired to the instrumentation that the technicians monitored. Sitting motionless atop the cylinder was Braddock, lost in meditation.

The technician checked readings before replying. "We were late starting." The tech frowned at his screen. "Seems to be a lot of traffic on the system, so we decided to reboot the instruments so we could get a good picture of both brains as she cracks him."

Geraint nodded. "What about Logan? How is he holding up in there?"

The tech turned from his diagnostic routines and pulled up another display. "The subject is putting up an impressive amount of resistance, sir. She hasn't been able to make much headway yet."

Geraint sighed. "Ms. Braddock's increased powers may be impressive, but Logan may be one tough nut to crack. This should be a good test for her."

Geraint watched with curiosity as Logan bucked and writhed in his confinement. Sweat rolled down Braddock's face.

Geraint smiled. "Take my advice, Logan," he muttered under his breath. "Let Ms. Braddock break you. If she can't crack you, the Boss will take care of your conditioning personally. You may be able to block her, but not even you will be able to resist him." A small shiver prickled involuntarily down his back.

**xXx**

Logan clenched his eyes shut tighter than his fists, focusing. He knew he would be dead if the rage that roared and tore at him was real. He focused, centering as best he could, not fighting. Not allowing himself to be hurt. Ignoring the monster.

But the pain was real, and he felt the ripping blows tearing him to shreds. Yet he did not die. And he focused hard, digging, trying to find something real in the assault.

A shadow flickered in the echo of his rage.

Logan wasted no time. In an instant he was atop the beast, his hands plunged into its chest. He growled in fury at the thing beneath him. He could feel the windpipe and cartilage of the shadow that hid in the rage as it bent inward under his grip. He twisted, and something snapped.

"Lo—gan—" Logan froze. He knew that voice, even choked as it was. Lisa. Beneath his crushing grip, the blonde girl stared at him in wide-eyed terror as the monstrous illusion that had hidden her fell away. Immediately he released her and stumbled back. Large black and purple marks marred her crooked neck.

"Lisa," he gasped. "I… I didn't know…"

She stared at him. Her throat worked, but it was too broken to breathe or speak. She stood before him, drowning, her eyes resonant with horror as she clutched at her broken neck.

Logan trembled in shock.

Her throat twisted again, popped loudly. Horns sprouted from her forehead, her legs twisted into recurves goat legs, and she hissed as her eyes flared red. Lifting a sword, she gurgled gleefully.

"Nope," he said, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning. "Not goin for it. You startled me but good. An that's as far as this'll get ya. That you, Betsy?"

Lisa shimmered and fell away. Braddock stood, calm, watching him.

"It's only a matter of time," she said. "They want to know everything you do. If you don't surrender to me, then it's the chemicals. And then it gets unpleasant." Her low, thrilling voice had the charming clip of an aristocratic British accent, belying the ugliness of her words.

"The tricks are just to soften me up, right?" he asked. She nodded. He sighed. "Cut to the chase. Here we are, just the two of us. Come on. I won't resist. Hit me with your best shot. Let's see if you can open me up for everybody to have a look." He stood, impassive, arms crossed over his chest.

She hesitated, wary.

"I got no secrets worth this ta keep," he clarified. "You just stick your brain in mine. An when yer done, let me walk outta here. And we'll see about round two."

She nodded, her eyes slightly curious. A long rippling dagger of mental energy coalesced about her fist. She sank the dagger into Logan's skull. Mental energy seared through him. It raged through every corner of his mind. Pain flared through every synapse of his overloaded brain.

They both screamed.

Nothing turned to _something._

**xXx**

"What the devil is happening?" Geraint demanded. Braddock's scream still echoed in his ears.

The technicians scrambled to interpret the readouts that redlined across their monitors.

"I'm not sure, sir," the senior tech managed. "Seems like some kind of psionic mine!"

"Pull her out!" Geraint demanded. He stared, riveted, as Braddock shuddered and went rigid. Her muscles writhed beneath her skin, spasming out of control.

"She could die!" the tech blurted. He worked feverishly at the console, adjusting her intravenous feed.

"I said get her out!" Geraint shouted. "Now!"

"Somebody seem too tense," drawled an accented voice from behind him.

Geraint whirled about.

Remy hung from a gap in the ceiling, a playing card in his hand.

"Security! Get him!" Geraint bellowed.

"I don tink I'll let you capture me dis time," Remy said.

He flicked the card. It blazed to life and left a searing arc of light across Geraint's vision. The card slammed into the array of consoles and unleashed its pent-up energy in a spectacular explosion. Shattered plastic and steel erupted through the room.

Geraint dove for cover beneath a table as debris pelted his back. Technicians scrambled to get free of the burning remains of the equipment.

Remy flipped to the ground, another card at the ready. He took quick measure of the room. Two large hallways led off from the control room.

Alerted by the explosion, security troops began to stream down each of the long corridors towards Remy. Bullets whizzed through the air, dangerously close to his head.

"Dese guys don waste no time." Remy muttered. He quickly converted the card and flicked it towards the control panel of the one entryway. It struck with explosive fury. Alarms erupted and blast shielding snapped across the opening, sealing out the approaching troops.

"Now for your friends." Remy whirled on the guards advancing down the opposite corridor.

In time to catch a bullet in his thigh.

Remy's leg buckled. He winced in pain and dropped the card he had palmed. He grabbed at his throbbing leg and tried to stifle the blood flow with his hand. When he looked up, the guards had reached him.

Remy laughed nervously. "I tink dere has been a small misunderstanding, monsieurs." He looked up at dark barrels aimed very carefully at his head.

Glass shattered. Logan burst through the window to the containment chamber. His face was contorted in a frenzied rage. He was a force of nature as he tore into the guards. Braddock leaped through the window behind him. Her body moved in an elaborate dance of death. Her feet splintered bone and her fists ruptured organs. Her smile was almost more terrifying than Logan's feral snarl. Remy thrust out his good leg to trip an unwary guard, then swiftly realized that if he did not move he would soon be in the direct path of the twin berserkers. Remy decided to move.

As he slid beneath an out-of-the-way table, a barrel pressed hard into his temple.

"We meet again, Mr. LeBeau." Geraint smiled. He cocked the hammer. His finger tensed on the trigger.

A look of shock froze on Geraint's face as a tip of purplish energy pulsed through his skull and protruded from his forehead. He dropped the gun and went limp. Braddock released him, letting him slump to the floor. She allowed the psionic dagger to dissipate. Her eyes found Remy's and held them.

"Nice work, ninja lady." Remy said. He wiped sweat off his brow. "You're not planning on hitting me again are you?"

Braddock's eyes searched his face. "You don't recognize me." She sighed. Her head dropped. "I don't blame you. Look at what I've become." She stared at her hands as if they belonged to someone else. "It's me, Remy. Elizabeth Braddock."

Remy stared at her. "You don' look like de Braddock I know."

"It's her." Logan stepped up behind Braddock, having run out of opponents. Blood coated his arms, his chest. The many wounds that crisscrossed his body slowly began to seal. "It's Betsy."

"How can you be sure, mon ami?" Remy kept his eyes warily on the Asian woman who claimed to be a British born lady.

Logan tapped his nose. "Always believe the nose."

Remy didn't move.

Logan sighed. "Look. You don't have to believe it, but we gotta get out of here."

Remy finally tore his eyes away from Braddock and eyed Logan carefully. Logan stared steadily back. Remy nodded, rising to his feet.

Logan glanced at the blood flowing between Remy's fingers where they pressed against the bullet wound in his leg. "You gonna be okay?"

Remy slowly got to his feet, favoring his right leg. He pulled a strip of cloth from a pouch at his belt and bound the wound tightly. He flexed his leg experimentally. "Don worry bout me. Dis little ting won't be enough to slow me down."

Logan nodded. "How do we get outta here, Bets?"

"Follow me." Braddock ran down the now empty corridor, Logan at her heels, and Remy limping behind.

The trio reached the entrance to the large main chamber and halted.

Dark shapes separated from shadow and crept about the perimeter of the room. Swords scraped across their sheaths as they were drawn. The ninja converged on the three escapees, flanking them on three sides.

Remy and Betsy shuffled back a couple steps into the mouth of the corridor. Logan squatted down before them, lowering his center of gravity. His claws snapped out, ready.

"Come get me," he snarled.

"I think this has gone far enough," a deep, smooth voice resonated. A man stepped out on the gantry above the open floor of the chamber. He was tall, distinguished in his dark suit. His shocking white hair belied his vitality. He smiled faintly at the battered refugees.

"I've not been formally introduced. You may call me Magnus." He tilted his head towards them. "Come quietly. Now." He shrugged. "Or you will find a more painful path to submission."

The ninja tightened in a half-circle around their opponents. The metal walls of the corridor twisted shut behind the fugitives, trapping them. Both sides faced off warily, waiting for the first strike to be thrown.

"Logan," Braddock whispered to the tense bundle of muscle and metal at her side. "Cut a path to the platform and I'll handle Magnus."

Logan yelped as he lifted off the ground several feet, awkwardly drifting. Magnus smiled, then nodded. "Disarm them. Take Braddock alive."

The northern wall erupted in a searing ball of flame. Chunks of concrete blasted through the startled ninja, scattering them across the room. The whole structure shook violently with the force of the explosion. Fire and thick black smoke billowed through the room. Magnus focused on deflecting the shrapnel that whistled at him from the broken wall.

Logan dropped to the floor and sprinted for the gap along with the others. A slim figure dropped from the rafters, swinging towards the new hole on a grapple line.

"Get your sorry hides out of there!" A huge man stepped up to the lip of the rubble strewn hole. His arms wrapped around a huge silver assault rifle. He let off a burst into the front ranks of the scattered ninja.

"Thanks for the assist, boss!" The slim man ducked low to avoid the field of fire as he scrambled up the pile of rubble towards his partner. He turned and gestured for the others to follow. "Looks like you'd best come with us for the moment," he shouted over the suppressing fire of the huge gun. He dodged past the bigger man and headed out across the field towards the distant woods.

The others quickly dodged past the heavily armed man and followed Forge.

Cable sprayed the rest of his clip into the black clad shapes. He swiftly pumped the grip on the barrel of the rifle and fired.

_Foomp._

The grenade detonated in a brilliant explosion. The loud groan of metal and cracking concrete filled the air as the roof high above began to collapse under its own weight. Ninja fled, all thoughts of battle gone.

Cable smiled grimly to himself. He shouldered the rifle and ran to catch up with the others. Behind him, the roof shuddered once more and finally collapsed to the ground with a deafening roar and a vast cloud of dust.

**xXx**

The refugees jogged or hobbled through the light woods as the alarms wailed too close behind them. They veered over to the shelter of a dense thicket of young trees.

"Watch for roadblocks," the slim man said to Logan. "Keep to the woods for at least ten miles. Good luck finding your way out. I'd invite you to hitch a ride on our chopper, but the policy is no riders," he said with a wide smile on his narrow features.

"Who the hell _are_ you people?" Logan growled, unsettled.

"Is there a problem here?" The man with the huge assault rifle walked up behind Logan.

"No, no problem." Forge said. "I was just introducing myself to our fellow escapees. You can call me Forge." He extended his hand towards Logan. Logan stared at him.

"Doesn't matter who we are," Cable said gruffly. "You never saw us, right?"

"Right," Logan nodded. "Right. Thanks for the rescue," he added, unsure.

"Tell me, monsieurs," Remy interrupted, eyeing the silvered rifle. "Who exactly are you working for?"

"Good luck with the rest of your escape," Cable said sharply. He pushed at Forge, and the two men turned and jogged on into the forest. Forge glanced back once, then they were gone.

"Okay," Logan grunted. "They got the right idea."

Moments later, the copse of trees was deserted.

**xXx**

Geraint rubbed his throbbing temples with both hands before stepping into the office. Once through the door, he stood at attention. He worked very hard to ignore the aftermath of Braddock's attack on his scrambled brain.

"Sir, there have been some… complications."

"Yes. I know," the man behind the chair murmured. The office's windowed wall was thick with dust. Thin crack lines were apparent on a couple of the panes.

Geraint waited for the verdict to fall.

"All goes according to plan," the soothing voice said.

Geraint blinked, startled. "But, sir," he stammered. "We lost not only both prisoners, but also Ms. Braddock, our most recent prototype."

"Your grasp of current events is accurate, if incomplete," the man agreed. "Besides," he murmured. "Why do you think we lost Ms. Braddock? She is exactly where she needs to be. She will be quite useful amongst her current companions."

The man beckoned for Geraint to move closer. "Come. It is time we had a chat with Magnus. He might misinterpret what happened tonight."

"Yes, sir." Geraint walked around the large desk and stepped up behind the high backed chair. He snapped paired handles into place along the back. He gently turned the wheelchair about and steered for the door.

The man in the chair rearranged the dark blanket draped across his useless legs and ran one hand across his bare scalp.

"Soon, Geraint." He rubbed his hands together as the other man guided the chair down the hall. "Soon Magnus's funding will get him what he wants and us what we want. When all the pieces fall into place, P.S.I. will be firmly in control of its own destiny." The man's smile was sharp and cruel.

"We all eagerly await that day, Dr. Xavier." Geraint replied.

Moments later they entered the den. Magnus stood waiting. Wisps of smoke still rose from his charred suit. He shrugged the tatters of his coat off his bulky shoulders and brushed futilely at the concrete dust that clung tenaciously to his shirt.

"We need to talk, Charles." His face was a thundercloud.

"Of course, old friend," Xavier nodded calmly. "We remain on schedule."

Magnus pinned the man in the chair with his steely gaze. "You anticipated this outcome?"

Xavier's smile did not reach his eyes. "Of course. Trust me, Magnus. The situation is under control. Consider this a field test of our new technologies."

"It would have been appropriate for you to appraise me of your plan," Magnus growled. Flecks of dust continued to sift out of his white hair. "Be wary, Charles. I've known you for a long time, and have learned to allow you your secrets. The other members of the Inner Council may not be as forgiving as I am."

"Don't worry about that, my friend." Xavier's cold smile returned. "I know just how to handle them."

**xXx**

Braddock sat atop the sloped roof of the motel, staring listlessly into the night sky. Her taut, well honed muscles trembled with the release of tension after the night's events. The night air beckoned her.

"Got somethin' on yer mind, Bets?" Logan moved up silently behind her.

She remained silent for a while. She watched the night sky, watched the moon slide along its arc, its silvery eye ever vigilant.

"How did you know, Logan?" she whispered.

"Know what?" He knelt at her side.

"How did you know you had a psionic mine?" She turned from the stars to look at him.

Logan shrugged. "I didn't. It was a calculated risk. I figured that mess the Project made a my skull ought to be enough to throw anyone for a loop."

Braddock dropped her head. She stared at her hands clasped in her lap. They looked to her like the hands of a stranger. "I don't know who I am anymore. They've completely destroyed who I was, Logan. The old Elizabeth Braddock is gone, and instead they've replaced her with a deadly killing machine. How am I supposed to know who I am?"

Logan watched her for a moment before he replied. "What you see ain't always what you get, Bets." He looked down at the three small scars on the backs of both his hands. "Lisa taught me that. You'll have to learn it for yourself."

Logan moved to stand up, but stopped as Braddock placed a cool hand on his arm.

"How do you know you can trust me, Logan?" Her eyes pleaded with him for answers.

Logan held her gaze, unflinching. "Trust ain't about what you know, Bets, but what you feel." He gently removed her hand from his arm and turned away. "The one thing I've learned running from the Project all these years is to trust my instinct." He looked at her over his shoulder. "It tells me you're okay, and I'll stick to that 'till it tells me otherwise."

He left, and she listened to his footsteps recede down the side of the roof.

"How do I know if I can trust myself?" she whispered to the wind.


	18. Cabin Fever

_Back to Andrew, your regularly scheduled tale-teller!_

**March 1, 2002**

Logan stood with his eyes closed and shirt off, his hand in the air, feeling a little foolish.

"Can you feel it?" Braddock asked.

"Uh," Logan stalled.

"Open your eyes," she said with a smile. He did.

She stood opposite him, her hand in the air as well, just an inch from his, palms facing each other. "Now for God's sake, Logan, relax," she said.

"I _am_ relaxed, darlin."

"One step at a time," she murmured, more to herself than him. "Now, keep your hand opposite mine; be my mirror reflection." She moved her hand slowly to the left, and he moved his like her mirror reflection. Then she moved it to the right. He followed. She picked up a little speed, moving in a slow circular pattern. He copied the move. She snapped right, and he kept up, if a fraction late. She stopped, her hand in the middle.

"Now you," she said, amusement sparking in her eyes.

"Great," he muttered. "Ninja pattycake." But he moved his hand nonetheless, and she followed.

They stood in a forest glade, the empty spring sky above them, the coniferous trees around them changing scent as they awoke after a drowsy winter. Nearby, a stream played across the low point of the clearing on its way down to wider waters. The air was a bit chilly, but that did not hamper the two who moved together over the uneven earth.

After a minute or so of switching back and forth, she stepped back.

"Do you feel it?" she asked. "The connection?"

"I simply do not get it," he muttered, eyeing her blackly. "I hate feelin stupid."

She raised an eyebrow. "Relax, Logan. It is always awkward to admit ignorance. Once you have, then you can get past it and learn."

He winced. "This'd be easier if you'd tell me the point, you know?"

She nodded. "Here is the point. Touch me."

His expression cleared. "Finally, somethin that makes sense." He reached out, and she was not there.

He looked puzzled for a moment, looking at where she stood beside him, lips pursed with suppressed laughter, mirth in her eyes. He reached again, and she was behind him. Stepped back with a grab, and she was next to him. A ferocious grin spread across his features. "Here we go," he said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. He crouched, and sprang.

She was out of the way of his spring, and behind him. He spun low with a kick but she had simply stepped to the side; at no time was she more than three feet away. Never out of arm's reach.

He played tag with her for a few minutes, then stopped, his muscled chest heaving with exertion, eyeing her sharply. She was cool and collected and… untouched.

"I take it back," he grunted. "Still don't make sense. I sure as hell aint slow."

"No," she agreed. "You are very quick, superhumanly fast. But you move on your muscles."

"We aint all psychic," he scowled. She shook her head.

"That's not what I meant. The purpose of my training was to teach my body to obey thought. The body is trained to rely on the goals of the mind and to accomplish them. An example. I learned to punch, yes, early on. But then I was taught to _forget_ how to punch. I learned to simply desire an effect upon the target, and my body carries out my orders. The training to reach that level of focus and control is," she shrugged, "unpleasant but highly effective."

Logan eyed her for a moment. "Run that down my other side," he said slowly. "Half my brain must not be catchin it."

"While you're moving to punch me, there's a lot of wasted tension in your body," she said, touching his hard arm. "Your chest is tight, your arms are already partly flexed, and as you move, your body tells anyone who's looking and sensing _exactly_ where you're going. Contrast that with a body trained to act before the thought is even completed. The mind is capable of much greater feats in the subconscious than it is in the conscious realm, and the body can move much faster if it is freed to do so. An example: tennis." She raised an eyebrow at him. "You ever play tennis?"

"Seen it on tv," he said, jutting his chin out at her, his hair wildly sweeping up from his head.

"If you teach your arm to swing for you, then all you have to think about is where you want the ball to go, and your body gets you to it and sends it over. When you are focused on the game, you reach a detachment, where you are allowing your reflexes and training to play for you instead of thinking the swing through."

"I don't play tennis," he said slowly, "but I _do_ drop the hammer and let go, let my body do the thinking for me. Has been known to happen." He actually blushed.

She nodded. "What I'm demonstrating is how to do that while fully in control; rather than letting your body handle things on its own, you give it guidance and let your training do the rest. The training normally takes at least a decade, but at the end you are free to forget it all with your mind and simply become what you are, for you have been… transformed." A shadow flitted across her features for a moment.

Logan sighed. "Enough prancin around in the meadow. Let's get back to the cabin." He glanced at the lowering sun. "Bout a hour till dusk." He scooped up his shirt and buttoned it on while Betsy looked out across the forest.

"I envy you, Logan," she said quietly.

"I'm sure with enough gel yer hair can do this," he said to her back with a rakish smile.

"The way you see the world," she said, steadfastly looking out over the valley. "The sights and sounds and smells; the world must seem more… real to you than it does to me."

"More real?" Logan said, thinking it over. "Hm. Not more real. Just… less built around _people_, if you know what I mean. More what it _is_ and less what people _think_ it is."

The hike back to the cabin was short. Logan scooped up an armload of firewood and bumped the door open, dumping the split wood into the bin by the Franklin stove. Betsy got a match out of the box and lightly jumped up on a chair. She turned up the gas, struck the match on the rafter, and lit the lamp. She dropped as Logan was lighting the stove.

"Aint much," Logan said, looking around the two room cabin, "but you knew what you were getting yourself into." He grinned.

"Indeed," she said, and she lowered herself into one of the deep and comfortable chairs backed against the wall between the cabin's two rooms. "You certainly have a gift for privacy."

"Yeah," he said, looking out the window. "I've had to. Beans and franks?"

"Sounds delicious," she said, leaning her head back and closing her eyes.

She flashed out of her mind, more reflex than anything else. Logan, by the stove, was a tough read, so her mind slipped past him and soared up and out, as though she was ground zero for a sensory explosion. Her probe sliced through the woods, and rippled out like a shock wave; at the limit of a mile there were no intellects but the half-formed body thoughts of animals and the thought echoes of insect programming. She held at that range, then returned. Logan was oblivious.

Her psionics called this stretch of land empty because she and Logan were the only ones with sentient thought. She put her face in her hands for a moment and breathed deep.

Logan glanced over his shoulder. "You alright?"

"I'll be fine," she said clearly, and she swept her hands back from her face to her hair, smoothly capturing it. She twisted it into a simple knot she had mastered during her training. "Need help with supper?"

"If we wuzn't packin light I'd a brought my 'Kiss the Chef' apron," he said. "Don't spoil my fun. But you can set the table. Supper's almost done. I _luv_ beans n franks." In a rapid practiced motion he sliced up the hot dogs with a paring knife, then tossed them in the skillet. They hissed and a wisp of smoke curled up. "Oh, and if yer itchin for somethin to do, you can get water from the spring." He gestured at two buckets upside down on the washing board.

She scooped up the buckets and headed out into the gathering dusk.

By the time she returned, Logan had brought the hot dogs to a sizzle and dumped the beans over them; he was in the middle of pouring molasses and barbecue sauce on them when she set the heavy buckets on the board.

"Just in time," he said. "You got yer ninja secrets, but I control the perfect mix of spices and sauces for franks n beans," he grinned.

"The suspense," she said dryly, "has me enthralled."

"Mock if you will," he said, nodding his head and grinning, "but I'll make a believer of ya."

She dipped water out of the buckets into the big plastic mugs on the table and delicately seated herself on the dented folding chair.

"Dinner," he said loftily, swinging the skillet off the stove and clomping over to the table, "is served."

"Merci, Monsieur," she said with an elegant nod. He scraped a pile of steaming food onto her plate, the rest onto his. He dumped the skillet in the sink and took his seat.

"Yer most welcome," he said, grinning at her. His grin softened. "I mean that, Bets."

She smiled, and speared some of his culinary masterpiece on her fork. She tried it out, a questioning line wrinkling her forehead. She slowly chewed, then nodded. "Interesting," she said.

He grinned. "Yeah, well, you don't hafta down it just ta make me happy," he said.

"No, I mean it," she said. "It is… interesting. Not what I'm used to."

Logan shrugged. "I get that a lot," he said.

They ate in quietness for a short time. She paused, looking at him directly. "You don't ask many questions," she said.

He sighed. "I don't need to," he said. "I know enough."

"You don't want to know how I ended up… there?" she said.

He put down his fork and looked up at her. "What you were doing at the Institute is none of my business until somebody makes it my business." He hesitated. "I trust you, Bets. Even if you'd rather I didn't."

"What makes you think I'd rather you didn't?" she asked.

"Let's call it a shot in the dark and let it go," Logan said with a shrug. "I decided a long time ago that you can either trust people or you can not trust people. Hell, there was a time when I went back and forth, back and forth, tryin ta figure out who I could trust. Even odds between when I was dead right and dead wrong. That's just too much work, Bets, and I am not up for it. My instincts trust you. So I will trust you. And that means somethin."

"What does that mean?" she asked quietly.

He grinned, leaning back. "I got a overactive heart and a empty head, more'n likely. I've seen both sides of that one, and I think I got the better deal."

"I think you're goofy," she said primly, spearing a hot dog chunk on her fork. He barked a laugh.

"That reminds me," Logan said, getting up.

"Do you _ever _sit still for more than ten minutes?" she asked as he headed out to the porch.

As soon as he went out he came back in, holding a cardboard box. "I brought you a cabin-warmin present to welcome you proper and all, since you'll be out here for a little while." He put it down and shuffled his boots. "Go on, open it." He grinned.

"But Logan," she said, "I didn't bring you anything." She started on the box.

"That's alright," he said. "This was too good ta pass up."

She got the box open and lifted out a mass of flannel. She stood and shook it out.

"Flannel nightie," Logan grinned. "Gets cold up here at night."

She couldn't repress a smile as she looked it over; purple and red and green, with a buttoned neck, and it fell all the way to her ankles, with long sleeves to boot. "It's amazing, Logan," she said, shaking her head. He laughed.

"Sure is. Now I'm gonna do the dishes and then go for my night run."

"Don't worry about the dishes," she said, folding up the night gown. "I'll take care of that. Go get your run in."

"Be back," he said, and he was through the door and off the low porch, then he disappeared into the brush.

She sat back down at the table and let her mind follow him into the darkness. The Project had left some psionic noise in his adamantium-wrapped brain, along with a psionic mine that she had triggered and disposed of. His thoughts remained psionically garbled and difficult to sort through, whether he liked it or not. She found it hard to penetrate his thoughts, but simple to follow his path in the darkness.

She put some water in a pan on the stove and heated up dishwater, absently looking down at her hands and smiling. Wondering if the toughening exercises they had put her through, the ability to sink her hands into hot sand, then hot gravel, would protect her from dishpan hands.

More than likely.

**xXx**

Logan cleared the rotting log with a sideways hop and jogged down the trail he was breaking in. The owls were starting early tonight; not ten yards away he heard a startled mouse scrabble for a moment with a squeak as the ghostly talons snipped it from the earth. The forest was sighing, letting the heat of the day release back into the night sky. Animals prowled. The trees shifted their weight and loads in the dim evening breeze. The sun's glory followed it down under the horizon. Stars, like the scents of evening, revealed themselves singly and in groups.

Moving through the evening, Logan found what he was looking for. A jump and a scrabble carried him to the top of a flat rock that stuck out of the hillside. At the base of the shelf was a fallen tree that had cleared just enough of a gap in the canopy for him to have an excellent view of the cabin. He saw Braddock's shadow moving inside.

Settling himself, he pulled out a cigar and lit it. Now, Betsy, she didn't like cigars, so he didn't smoke them inside when she came. One sure did taste good after dinner, though. Especially such an excellent dinner as beans and franks.

He drew on the cigar, and let the smoke drift out of his nose and mouth, losing itself in his wild hair. He lay on his back in the gathering chill of evening, enjoying the warmth of the sunbaked rock. He counted stars, knowing where they should be but completely ignorant of constellations.

"Like freckles," he muttered. "Like the sky has got glowing freckles." He drew deeply on the cigar again.

Soon he would get up and finish his rounds; check the edge of the lake, climb to his lookout to check the road to town, go into the old stands of ancient forest, then back to the cabin.

For now, though, the flat rock overlooking the cabin was difficult to leave.

**xXx**

Braddock finished her sweep of the cabin, and could find no clock. A battered radio was on a shelf, and it had an unopened package of batteries next to it. In case of emergency.

Logan's cabin might not be much, but it certainly was tidy. The blankets were folded and stashed, the few cooking implements and dishes were neatly stacked in the cupboard, and the floor was regularly swept before she came. He kept a tidy lair. She imagined a pile of bones outside the door of previous victims, as a warning, and suppressed a smile.

Logan's boots hit the boardwalk of the porch, and he swung into the cabin with an armload of wood. "Ya know," he said as he dumped the wood in the bin by the stove, "I'm really glad your ninja trainin overcame yer ladylike upbringin so you can use the outhouse."

She arched an eyebrow. "The dark holds no fear for a ninja," she said. "Nor anything in it."

"So how come I plowed through those jokers that attacked me on the roof of the institute?" Logan asked as he opened the front of the stove and tossed a stick, then another, of firewood into the stove.

She sighed as she took a seat on his battered couch. "Training takes a minimum of ten years, and for most ninja it takes twenty. Those with any level of skill undertake field missions during training. They are skilled fighters, but they are not completely transformed yet. Skilled men and women on their way to becoming ninjas have a place in combat, or in spy duties. Of course they all can't be at the level of master ninja, experts. You have to start somewhere, and they think that field experience teaches things that are more time consuming to learn in a dojo."

"Well, I guess I schooled them proper," Logan said.

"The ones that survived," Betsy shrugged. "Had it been a master, you never would have seen the attack coming and your skeleton and healing factor would not have saved you."

"Are you a master?" Logan asked, closing the front of the stove.

She shook her head. "No. Even with a year of accelerated, technologically enhanced training I am only masterful, not a master. I saw things…" she trembled for a moment. "A ninja master is no longer human," she said simply. And let it drop.

So did Logan.

"I'm tuckered out," he said. "Why don't you turn in and I'll finish closin up shop. You tired?"

"I suppose I am," she said with a smile.

He nodded at the doorway with the curtain caught up to one side. "Well, go on in and I'll finish up out here."

She rose, nodded to her host, and walked into the dark room. Her senses led her to the match on the table. She lit it, and lit the candle by the big bed. It had no frame, just box springs and a mattress on the floor. She sat on the bed, kicked off her shoes, and started brushing her hair. She paused, got up, slipped out of her clothes and pulled on the flannel night gown. She smiled.

Logan climbed up on the chair, turned off the overhead light, and puttered around in the dimness from the stove for a few minutes. Then he shucked off his shirt and lay down on the couch, pulling a blanket over his shoulders.

"Night Bets," he said.

"Good night, Logan," she replied.

She didn't go to sleep right away. By the time she had read a chapter in the novel she had bought at the airport, he was softly snoring.

That was the best lullaby she could have asked for.

**March 2, 2002**

After a quick breakfast of oatmeal, they pushed back from the table.

"I'm going to go take a bath," she said.

"I showed you where the crick is, you remember, right?" Logan said.

She smiled. "I can memorize complex blueprints with a glance, navigate a maze in the dark by smell, and you want to know if I can find a place not a mile from here you showed me three days ago."

"No need to get all smug," he muttered. "I saw something suspicious on the north ridge last night, I'm gonna go check it out."

"If you didn't find anything suspicious, I suspect you would get bored," Betsy said.

"That I might," he grinned. Then he plucked his hat off the coat rack and was gone out the door, across the clearing, into the woods.

Braddock stretched luxuriously, then stood and collected her shampoo and towel and soap and headed out the door herself.

Logan moved through the woods low and at good speed, staying in practice. In twenty minutes he had reached the area that had sparked suspicion last night. He examined it more closely.

At the base of the tree, an odd smell but a familiar one. He sniffed, sniffed the bark, where scents sometimes caught in the striated wood, away from the breeze. Yep. Unmistakable.

Brimstone.

He glanced at the tree, his fingers running lightly over its bark. There, there, there. Someone climbed this tree in a hurry. Someone agile.

Bet he jumped down.

Logan walked around to the other side, and looked at the ground.

Two toes and a dewclaw toe. Yes, he had company. Probably startled him in the dark last night.

He looked around the woods, then started off down the trail left by the three toed interloper.


	19. Conflict of Interest

**xXx**

She pulled her clothes back on, her body loose and tight from the biting cold water of the spring. She twisted her hair, just so, to get most of the water out of it. Then she twirled and twisted it for a few seconds, and it was in a serviceable bun that would stay put. She mused that advanced hair care was not something she had expected to learn from ninja conditioning, but she didn't complain.

Her fourth day at the cabin, she reflected as she walked back up the narrow trail. Four days and it already felt kind of like home. She let her mind out to sift the surroundings, out of habit. Irritation ahead, and not far from the track. She picked up the pace.

Logan squatted, looking down at the path.

"Not peeking, I hope," she said dryly.

"Nope," he said.

"What are you following?" she asked.

"Deer," he lied. He stood and smiled. "Let's head back. I found a rabbit warren not far from here, so I figure we'll have stewed coneys for supper."

"Coneys?"

"Bunny rabbits," Logan grinned. "Good eatin."

"You should work for Disney," she sighed with a smile. "Logan, thank you for inviting me up here. The woods are really quite beautiful."

"Yer welcome," he said. "I feel lucky to have this place. I've only been up here a couple weeks myself, I'm learnin the place."

"Really?" She blinked. "You fit in so well I thought you must have lived here for years."

"Nah," he said, gesturing. They started up the trail. "I lived in a tiny apartment in New York."

"Really?" she said, genuinely surprised. "I wouldn't have guessed."

"I didn't say I _liked_ it," he said. "But it was necessary." He was abruptly quiet. Then he sighed. "Anyway, I got one week left before I gotta get back to work."

"What do you do?" she asked. "For work."

"I'm a Security Specialist," he said with a lopsided grin, "at Stark International."

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"Not sure yet," he shrugged. "And even if I was, it'd be classified. I could tell you, but then I'd have to whack not only you but all the people you telepathically linked with before maximum checkout." He grinned.

"Stark sounds paranoid," Braddock said. "What is he hiding?"

"Like I'd know," Logan said. "But enough about me. I mean it. I like this place," he said, gesturing around, "because there's no questions, no thinkin, no time besides day and night. I can just be, and let it be."

She was quiet for a moment, and their feet crunched along the path. "That's profound," she said.

He shrugged. "Don't know about that. It's true."

She looked away over the trees. "Privacy is so hard to get," she said. "Even the people who say they want to honor it walk on eggshells so they don't offend you, but find it hard to get around their questions to deal with you when no answers are forthcoming. The only other people who don't ask don't care; about the answers or about you."

He looked at her sideways, and her delicate Asian features were almost sad.

"I do care," he said, and he looked for the words to explain.

"I know," she said. She quickly looked away from him. "This is a wonderful place, Logan."

He felt suddenly awkward and didn't know why. He wasn't sure whether to thank her or apologize. So he swallowed his puzzlement and let it go, wondering if everything was alright.

They got back to the cabin. "Well," Logan said, "I've got some trackin ta do. I think a bear came onto the premises, and I'm gonna find it an make sure it's laired right, so it don't come down here. The dump's a good mile away, so we should be out of harm's way."

"I'll amuse myself," she said. He nodded curtly and headed off into the brush.

She went inside and puttered until he was well and truly out of earshot. Then she went unzipped her unzipped her black bag. She pulled out a pair of butterfly swords, their blades wide and short, sheer purple and black scarves on their pommels. She walked out into the clearing.

Set her stance.

Slowly at first, she began working through the iterations of the sword kata. Then faster. As she moved faster, her mind was freed as her reflexes took over; her body knew the routine better than she did. Conditioning. Her mind expanded as her body moved.

Twirling and spinning and slashing, blocking, parrying, thrusting, kicking, she moved around and around. Finally she reached the end of the kata and stopped, still breathing lightly, and her consciousness was sharpened.

Thought.

She spun and faced the cabin, her psionics sharply focused. There; through layers of defense, a mind. A mind that had been there for some time.

She heard a muffled tearing crack on the other side of the cabin, then another on the far side of the clearing. She spun to see a crouched figure.

He was blue, swathed in drifting fumes.

Beyond that, he had pale yellow eyes, and the hands he extended as if to ward her off each had two fingers and a thumb, same as his feet. He was dressed in dark leathers, and aside from a thin blade in a sheath at his waist he seemed unarmed.

Seemed.

"Explain yourself," she said, her voice tight with anger.

"Greetings and good morning," he said quickly. "I came to speak with you."

"Took your sweet time showing yourself," she said sharply.

"I did not wish to interrupt," he explained. "I wanted to choose a time that would not startle you. I come bearing news."

"How did you evade my probes?" she asked.

He sighed. "If you must know, it's a bit of technology designed against your particular talent, but I can tell you no more about it. Please, I have news you _must_ hear."

"Go on," she said. She sensed Logan coming, fast and quiet. Tracking a bear, indeed.

"Concerning the ninja clan, the Hand," he said. "Because of your break with the Institute, they have broken their ties as well. Since you are an outsider, you must be killed to protect their secrets. They will hunt you…" he said, glancing around, "to the ends of the earth."

"Don't take kindly," Logan said from behind the newcomer, "ta trespassers."

"Logan," the fuzzy blue man said, "we must talk as well."

"By all means, finish with the lady," Logan said. "Don't be in a hurry ta talk ta me. You might not _like_ it."

Elizabeth Braddock had been thinking. "You are right," she said to the furry blue man. "I can't stay here. I must return and face them."

"I'll go with ya," Logan said.

"No," she replied, shaking her head slowly. "This I must do alone."

"I'm good at causing distractions," Logan said, stepping out of the brush. "And I aint a mac truck when I'm tryin ta be quiet, either."

"I don't doubt your skill or your friendship, Logan," she said. She turned to the trespasser. "Why did you bring this news to me?" she asked.

"My employers do not wish you to be killed," he said simply. He flashed a bright white smile. "Goodbye."

A dull muffled crack resounded, and he was gone, leaving only swirling hazy smoke and the stench of brimstone behind.

Braddock sighed.

"Smoke 'em if you got 'em," she said, waving the smoke away from her face.

"Fair enough," Logan shrugged, pulling out a cigar. "You know, one of these days I'm gonna throttle the identity of his employers out of him."

**xXx**

They sat quietly on the porch in the warmth of the afternoon. Logan's cigar trailed a lazy drift of smoke. His boots were propped up on the railing. Betsy sat with her legs primly crossed, a glass of tea forgotten on the small table beside her.

"I'm leaving at dusk," she said quietly. He nodded.

The afternoon unwound around them.

"The spy isn't gone," she said.

"I know," Logan replied. "Him an me got business still."

"Should I leave sooner?" Braddock asked.

"Nope," Logan said. He put the cigar to his lips and breathed in through it; the tip flared. He puffed the smoke out and lowered the cigar again. Ash fell to the floor unheeded.

Braddock bit her lip, looking out over the clearing and into the forest. "Logan," she said, "I'm not sure how to say this."

"Say what?" he asked.

"I'm not available, Logan. I have… too many questions. Too much to sort through."

He barked a laugh. "Bets, even if you were available, I wouldn't make the move," he said. He looked directly at her. "I got few enough friends in this world without screwin up with one of the best." He looked back over the yard. "You always got a place to run to, long as I got or can make a place," he said, his tone final. "Always."

She found herself unable to speak for a moment.

"That work for you?" he asked softly.

She nodded. "That works for me," she said, and she couldn't help but smile.

**xXx**

Dusk.

She left, supper still warm in her stomach.

He watched her go.

The trespasser returned.

"What do you want, Kurt," Logan said, looking into the deepening gloom. "Make it snappy."

"First of all to thank you," Kurt said. "Stark does not make defective explosives."

"Yer welcome. Now to the point." He did not turn.

Kurt chuckled. "I don't suppose you'd believe that _was_ the point?"

"Not a chance in heaven or hell."

Kurt sighed. "My employers have not given up on Tymaz Nine."

Logan faced him. "Stark doesn't have it any more," Logan said. "He destroyed the sample when he manufactured the countermeasure to the disease."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "And you believe Stark?"

"Yep."

Kurt sighed. "Don't. It's a sure bet he still has a sample."

"I won't save you again, Kurt."  
"If you find out he still has a sample," Kurt said slowly, "perhaps you would feel differently. Perhaps you would consider making a deal?"

"Kurt," Logan said, choosing his words, "no. Not a chance."

"Then," Kurt said, "it seems we have nothing further to discuss."

"How about the weather?" Logan said, looking up into the deep star-splashed expanse.

He was alone.

**xXx**

She waited. Right on time, he prowled under her tree, along the trail she had left. Then it ended; not in a stream or over a wall or on a slab of stone; right there in the loam the tracks just stopped. He looked around, puzzled, then realization dawned on him.

"Bets," he sighed, "yer better than I am in the woods now. Will the travesties never cease? You gonna start makin better franks n beans than me next?"

Logan's words echoed in the empty woods.

He looked down at his boots and shuffled a little. "Okay, so I broke my word. I'm comin after ya. Bang ya got me." He looked around in the canopy, sniffed.

Her ninja training was too comprehensive for him to detect her so simply.

"You aint gone," he muttered. "Not yet. Might as well be, though." He sighed. "Thanks fer comin. If you ever need to come out here when I aint around, place is yours. And if you ever need anythin, just look up Stark. He'll know how to reach me, even if I'm unreachable. Guess that's all there is to say." He turned and trudged back the way he came.

Silent, elegant, invisible, she raised her hand to bid him farewell. Then she was gone, and the trees rustled with the night breeze.

**March 14, 2002**

Snow twirled down out of the sky, each flake blazing an aimless trail down towards the earth. Together, they formed a shifting, glittering curtain. Enough individual and seemingly random movements made a single, monolithic impression. The man watching out the window smiled to himself.

"Lovely weather," he murmured. His assistant waited outside the door, so he whispered a thought to him; _enter, wait_. As always, his very thought was obeyed. _Report_.

"All is in readiness, sir," Geraint said. "We have the three restraint chambers crafted to your specifications."

"Excellent," Xavier said. He relaxed, and closed his eyes. He listened, as few other mortals could listen. "They will not be long now," he said, a smile lingering on his features. "Perfect weather for the Ides of March, don't you think?" he chuckled.

Geraint had nothing to say to that.

**xXx**

"You know about the Chateau?" the man asked, his voice shaky, his eyes haunted. The beautiful Asian woman seated next to him at the shadowed end of the bar nodded once. The man looked down into his beer, watched the surface tremble as he touched it with his hands; hands that never stopped shaking.

"Where is the Chateau?" she asked softly.

"I don't know how you found me," the man muttered. "I'm one of maybe five pilots that take supplies from here to there. Just a handful of bush pilots contract with the Chateau. We got a rotating schedule. A truck with supplies shows up once a month, and one of us flies it out. There's no road up to the place, just a small airstrip. I think they got a chopper or two, but we always fly in, they never fly out."

"Sounds reasonable enough," the beautiful woman said. He looked at her sideways, then downed his beer in a long draught. He slapped down the empty mug and dragged the back of his hand across his loose mouth.

The woman nodded at the barkeep, who drew another mug of beer and slid it down. The woman passed it on, and the pilot flashed her a brief smile.

"Hardly creepy," she added.

"I guess not," he shrugged, unconvinced. "I guess that's not so creepy. See, we can never remember where the site is, no matter how many times we fly up there. We make up excuses. But we never make any notes or check our readings to get a fix on the place. See, when we get close, the Heads Up Display flickers on, and guides us the rest of the way in." He stopped.

"But?" she prompted.

His staring eyes bored into her. "I checked the plane," he said softly. "They don't have HUD in 'em."

He looked back down into his beer. "Too scared to quit," he said. "I got no proof of nothin, and there's no news story, far as I know nothin illegal goin on up there. But it scares the bejeezus out of me all the same. Once we set down, these long haired eurotrash types with real tight mouths direct some guys in jumpsuits to unload the cargo, then the money shows up in our accounts the next day. Slick operation."

She nodded, and then looked deep into his eyes. "Henry," she said, "_where_ is the airstrip the supply planes use to head out?"

"What are you thinking of doing?" he asked slowly, unblinking, his voice small.

"Don't you agree it's better," she said, her smile flashing teeth in the dim light, "if you don't know?"

**xXx**

Logan snapped the cap off the child proof bottle of pills. One by one, he placed the pills on the pen tray of the easel. Little pink pills. He sighed to himself. "Thank you, Stark," he murmured. The door chime to his room sounded.

Quickly, he grabbed the sheets of newsprint curled over the back of the easel and tugged them down over the sheet with writing. He tossed the bottle on his bed and squinted at the door.

"Ontray Vew," he said.

The door slid open, and an attractive woman with dark hair and large glasses smiled at Logan. "Evening, Logan," she said. "That's almost French."

"Evening, Ms. Potts," he grinned back. "Stark said the French were almost civilized. Somethin I shoot for. I forget to check out again?"

"No, no, nothing like that," she said. "May I come in?"

"Sure," he said with a gesture. "I'm off duty at the moment. Mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all," she said, and she stepped into his rooms. Logan walked over to the wall and flicked a switch. A ventilation system whined to life, and he sat down in a battered but comfortable chair right under the vent. He lit up his cigar and grinned, then gestured at another chair.

"No thanks," Potts said. "I'm working through my to-do list before I get off duty. Just had a few questions."

"Fulla answers," he grinned, and he puffed. The smoke trailed up quickly and vanished into the wall.

"Are you satisfied with your housing?" she asked, gesturing. He glanced around the open living room with the television and game system and kitchenette, the couch, the comfy chair with a vent; a hallway to a bathroom and his bedroom.

"Couldn't be happier," he grinned. "Stark's a prince. I got no windows, but he said I got the run a the place, so I can go outside anytime I want. This deal's workin out just fine."

"A prince, huh," she said. She hesitated for a moment, then rushed on. "What do you think of him as a person?"

"Well," Logan said, grinning, "he's rich, so he's wacko. I don't know we'll ever be buds, but he's done a stand up job by me and I trust him. An he's sharp as a whip, I mean _real_ smart. I'll never figure him out, but long as he does right by me I don't need to. He's given me everything I asked for, and I'm much obliged."

"So you're satisfied?" she said.

"Yep," he nodded, and he dragged on his cigar again. "Even premium smokes."

"Is there a situation with a significant other that we may need to compensate for?"

Logan barked a laugh. "No, fraid not. Been nineteen years since I had a 'significant other' and it just aint worth the _bother_. Thanks fer askin, though."

She shrugged. "It's my job to fix things before they break," she smiled.

"One helluva job," Logan said, shaking his head. "Night."

"See you around," she said, and she left. The door slid shut behind her.

"Damn Star Trek doors," muttered Logan, and he chuckled to himself. Then he got up and turned several sheets back on the easel.

It was working better than he had hoped. After the first week, the pills had started disappearing, and now ten a week vanished off the easel. More than she needed. So she could have some extras, in case something happened to him. He smiled, and shrugged out of his jumpsuit, pulling on sweats. As he headed for the door, he turned and regarded the bold blocky printing;

_Tymaz Nine countermeasure_ it read, with crude arrows pointing down to the tray. _Take one daily_.

"Welcome back to the real world," he murmured. "Somewhere. As for me," he grinned, "time for my run." He turned and opened the door; then the console chirped.

"Agent Logan," came the collected voice of the complex operator. "Call for you."

"What the hell," Logan said, closing the door. "I'll take it."


	20. Ides of March

**March 15, 2002. Ides of March.**

The purring wound through her meditations as she floated, completely open. She was so open she dissolved. She was formless and without thought, invisible.

Her body was in a crate on a cargo plane that hefted itself high enough to pass over the sharp peaks, headed deep into the mountains to an isolated mansion.

He searched for her; at some level she felt that. But she would not be found. She was not there to find. She was everywhere and nowhere, she was everything and she was nothing. She brought with her the death of many, gently enfolded in the gossamer of nothingness.

Not yet time to unpack.

Vaguely she sensed a touch on the pilot's mind; his 'HUD' flickered to life. Not long now.

Far from where she was dispersed, her body smiled. The ninja woman was ready.

**xXx**

"Are you _sure_ that's a good idea?" Geraint murmured. Xavier waved his concerns away.

"Geraint, after all the ninja training you have observed, you should know the First Rule," Xavier said. "Leave nothing living. Now order the evacuation of the base. Four of our ninja and four of our students will stay. You must take the others and evacuate the facility."

"The _danger_," Geraint said, shaking his head. "I can't accept the danger you place yourself in."

"The guards, soldiers, all the others would not make me any safer," Xavier explained patiently. "The ninja women that are coming will kill everyone between me and them. No matter what. So I wish to preserve life by letting them come right in."

"You are awfully confident," Geraint said, "or bored with life."

Xavier's eyes narrowed, and Geraint felt a ripple from the incredibly powerful telepath. "Do you doubt me?" Xavier asked gently.

"No sir, I don't," Geraint said as sweat beaded on his scalp. A _most_ uncomfortable sensation.

"Then trust me," Xavier said. "You have little time. One is coming on the supply plane. I cannot pinpoint her, but she is there. She _must_ be on the plane. The other is coming in from the mountains. They will be here in an hour. I want you out of here before then."

"Yes sir," Geraint said. It seemed there was nothing else to say. He left.

Xavier closed his eyes and smiled to himself. _Come to me,_ he thought, beckoning them. _I will wait for you here. The others are of no consequence._

_Come to me._

They drew near.

**xXx**

Both planes had droned into the empty sky, and Lock quietly waited in the shadow of the house. She did not need her psionics or her ninja senses to know that the house was almost abandoned. So they were expected. This gave her a cold chill. They should not be expected. She had only spoken with one person about this mission, and he was not going to tell anyone because he forgot they ever talked; she had seen to that.

Silent would not have tipped her hand either, Lock was sure. Closing her eyes for a moment, she felt Silent moving through the snow, so near now…

_Silent hunted, the cold irrelevant. Now it was light flurries, the chill too deep for the fallen snow to stick to the pale blanket already on the ground. Every puff and gust of wind slithered a knee-high mist of snow around her legs as she stalked down the side of the mountain towards the mansion._

_Yes. This is a good place for an ambush. She felt their hearts, slowed by the cold. She felt their minds, numb and silent. They waited. They waited for her._

_So she was not surprised when they burst up through the crust of snow._

_You have not yet learned, she thought to them. Your techniques are sloppy, because I can do this—_

_The shuriken glanced off her forearm, and she leaped into the air, her short sword whipping free and lashing through the ninja's neck. She landed behind the corpse, and the shuriken that fired towards her hit the dead meat with rapid thuds. Simple, she thought, you are so slow. Her sword whipped out of her hand and caught the other ninja square in the chest._

_Surely you can survive that, she thought, moving towards him and touching him here, there, there._

_The shattered ninja collapsed. She retrieved her sword and twirled it once; it was clean._

_She moved on, and the snow hissed over all traces of her passing._

Lock let her eyes drift open, back in her body. She shivered again, wondering about her new ally. What Lock _could_ have been. Then she moved to the doorway, through it, into the mansion.

No security cameras. Well, that figures, she thought. When _he_ is home they are not needed, and when he isn't, why bother.

She moved into the chilled mansion, and it felt warm after the howling wind. Elaborate woodwork, stained glass, carpet on the floors. She slipped in and moved to an alcove as she sensed the approach of a guard.

His mind flitted ahead of him, and behind; he was Aware. His paces were slow as he walked down the hall, his eyes half shut, looking for her with his other senses. She quickly dampened down, but just from watching him move she knew he was accomplished in combat. The submachine gun he carried was nothing. His long hair obscured half his face, fanning out over his shoulders.

She became invisible.

He walked past.

She moved silently behind him, towards the door he had passed through.

_Sloppy_, came a thought. _Leave nothing living_.

_I have passed him_, she thought back. _He is not a danger_.

_The First Rule_, came the thought. _The First Rule is more important than your judgment_.

Then she heard the snak of steel through flesh and bone, felt the quick hot spurt of death.

Silent had entered the building.

_It doesn't have to be that way_, Lock thought.

_Yes it does,_ came Silent's thought, fast and urgent. _Can you not feel him, gloating and malignant? He must be silenced. I have sought him as he has sought me in dreams. I must still his laughter, his endless laughter, bring silence to his power. You have shown me the way._

_I feel him, yes, _Lock thought. _He has controlled me before_.

Then Lock turned and saw her, standing in the hallway, her blade bright. She was a dark thing of breathtaking beauty, death hovering around her like hair shrouds a face underwater, coiling with power, asleep and more alive than a mortal should be.

_Did you like it?_ Silent thought scornfully.

_He must be stopped_, Lock nodded firmly. _I do not think we should kill him_.

Silent took three steps and was out of sight.

_Do what you must_, came a thought, and Lock was not sure whose it was.

**xXx**

Like moving through deep water; like a dream, where you cannot run. Lock found herself in a well-appointed chamber below the mansion. A window looked out from the cliff face. The secret room was armored and independent. She faced Xavier, as she could only remember doing a handful of times. Her mind was on high burn keeping the weight of his presence at bay. A drop of blood trickled out of her nose.

Then Silent was beside her, and the burden eased somewhat.

_Now is the time for you to die,_ Silent thought.

_I have long waited to bend you to my will,_ Xavier replied easily, his articulation and thought clear and sharp in their minds; Lock blinked.

Gasped.

Crushing weight slammed into the two ninja, and they bowed beneath it; Xavier reached into their minds.

But Silent was protected; she was empty; she could not move at him, but she was not his. Her eyes flared, her nose bled, and a smile twisted across her face. She became something deeper. She had prepared for this—

Next to her, there was a Moment of Truth. The truth was ugly.

Lock took a step to the side and lashed out. Silent blinked, startled. Looked at Lock. Silent looked into her eyes, she saw Xavier looking back.

The battle was quick and foregone. The psi knife was through Silent's forehead in a flash.

Silent lay on the floor, her breathing shallow, and Lock stood slowly swaying back and forth, her nose freely bleeding.

_How_, thought Lock, deeply submerged.

_A backdoor into your mind, my dear_, replied Xavier. _Standard procedure for those who work for me. I knew you were coming, and how. I knew you would bring Silent; indeed, without her I never would have allowed you to leave in the first place. Your link to her was _my_ link to her. The Hand will be _most_ pleased that I have done what they could not and taken, _alive_ no less, their rogue pupil. When I am finished with her, _Xavier smiled, _she will keep **none** of her secrets. And as a bonus, you have given me a rogue lab monkey from Extechops, this time with no property damage._

_Damn you. Damn you._

Xavier gestured, and she collapsed unconscious. His breathing was calculated and even.

He steepled his fingers. "Hans," he called. One of his scientists stepped into the room. "Take them to the containment chambers."

"Yes sir," Hans said. "Shall I summon the plane back?"

"Not yet," Xavier said, sweat beaded on his domed forehead. "Not yet."

**xXx**

Franc and Hans pushed the gurneys with the ninja women on them. They exchanged a glance, then turned and opened fire on the door into the dining room.

Their guns clattered, furiously loud in the hallway, punching holes in the solid door. A retreating shadow left blood on the other side of the door.

"Dammit!" came a shout. "Fine, you wanna play it hard," snikt "we'll play it _hard_."

As the door exploded into kindling, Hans snatched at the intruder's mind and tried to halt him—got something-_else—_then Hans grabbed at his face as blood spurted out his nose and he reeled.

As for Franc, he just kept shooting.

Neither of them stopped him.

Loan whirled around the bullets and snapped his claws through Franc's face, tearing his head in half. "Keep yer lobes to yerself, Fabio," he grunted to the other scientist, hurling Franc's body at him. They went down in a tangle of limbs.

"Didn't like my head?" Logan asked. "Sorry it's a little messy, but that's what ya get for droppin by without callin first." Shunk.

The fight was over.

Logan snipped the restraints off Lock. Then his arms swallowed his claws again. "Come on, girl," he whispered, rubbing her hand. "Let's get outa here.

She blinked, slowly, and yawned. He grinned at her. "Sight fer sore eyes, Bets," he said.

Her hand shot out, and a finger punched into each of his eyes. His head snapped back, the shock of pain incredible. Her other hand shot into his sternum. Her leg whipped up off the table and crushed into the side of his neck, taking him off his feet.

"Whu" he managed before she dropped, momentum and body weight smashing her knee into the side of his head, cracking the floor with his skull.

He faintly felt her fingers jab him in three places, then he was unconscious.

**xXx**

"Touching, really," came a voice from very far away, on the other side of the pain.

Logan raised his head blearily, trying to blink but failing as his eyes had not grown in yet.

"Yew must be Xavier," Logan managed. He was not tied or restrained, but he was kneeling on the floor.

"Very good," the cold voice said. "Doggy gets a biscuit."

"Yeah," Logan said. "Like I've never heard _that_ before. You can do better'n that, Mister Nancy Pansy Psychic."

"Gracious," Xavier said under his breath. "Ms. Braddock, please take this poor creature and the woman ninja to the restraining chambers. I'll be along directly to help you into yours."

"Yes sir," her voice said, distant.

_"I got somethin ta say first," Logan growled, his voice broken with pain._

"Very well," Xavier said. "Say your piece."

"I just wanted to tell you I aint stupid," Logan said. "I knew the odds and I came anyway. I just wanted you to know that."

"Honestly," Xavier said, his voice amused. "I don't care about your intellect."

"Figgered you wouldn't. For all the experimentin people do on me, they never ask me what I think. So before we get back to that, or before the big check out, I want to tell you what I think."

"This won't take long, will it?" Xavier said, glancing at the clock.

"I'll keep it short," Logan said. He felt his eyes growing back in with an unbearable painful itch. "A wise man once told me that you aint really livin until you got something you'd die for. For me, that's my friends. Once you make it into the circle of my friends, there aint much I wouldn't do for ya. That's because I got honor. Honor aint about winnin and losin. Honor is about where you draw the line you _will not cross_. Its about what you'll live for and what you'll die for, and without it you don't really live and you die a little every day." Logan cleared his throat.

"Finished?"

"Almost," Logan said. "I wanted to tell you all this in case nobody ever did. Even if you win today, and tomorrow, and get the whole enchilada er whatever yer fightin for, when it comes down to it and you're in the dark at three in the mornin and the doubt comes, and the fear comes, and the regret comes, you gotta have somethin to push em back with or it's all fer nothin."

"Thank you, that was very kind. And now—"

"One more thing," Logan said, the floor coming into focus. "I got one more thing to say."

"My patience wears thin," Xavier said.

"Now," Logan said with a grin as he finally saw the floor.

"Now?" Xavier echoed, puzzled. Then his eyes widened—

A muffled tearing crack and a gust of brimstone erupted next to Xavier's chair, and a shadowy figure darted out a hand holding a spray canister, firing a mist at Xavier. The powerful psycher raised his hands, but he was too late. The gas danced over his eyes and through his sinuses. His eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped in his chair.

Trespasser stepped through the curling mist of his teleportation and sprayed some more in Xavier's eyes and nose just to be sure. Then he turned to where Logan was standing and Lock swaying, ready to fall.

"Ta sum up," Logan said with a ferocious grin. "One. I aint stupid. Two. I got friends. Kurt, here's yer tracker." Logan took a small black device that looked like a pager out of his pocket and tossed it to the newcomer. "Thanks a million."

"I believe that makes us even," Kurt said.

"Yeah, and you can also look around," Logan said, gesturing. "Lotsa secrets around here."

"You are too kind," Kurt said, and he moved out of the armored room and down the hall.

"My head," Lock said faintly.

"I know the feelin," Logan said, rubbing his scalp. "You are a nasty woman, you know that?"

"I really am sorry," she said earnestly.

"I knew what I was getting into," he said with a shrug. "This is the way it had to go down. But the story aint over."

Lock looked over at Xavier's slumped form. "No, it isn't over yet. And while he lives it _won't_ be over." She looked back at Logan. "He didn't see your plan in your mind," she noted.

Logan shrugged. "Too lazy," he grinned. "He coulda poked in, but like he said, he didn't care what I thought. An I got some _noisy _headspace. How'd he get you?"

"He had a back door to my mind," she said sourly. "Put it in while I was being trained at the Institute. Just waltzed through his personal Belgium and evaded my Maginot line completely."

"Can he do it again?" Logan asked quietly.

"No," she murmured. "No he can't. But there's only one way to be totally sure."

He watched her. "So what now?"

"Well," she said slowly, "the First Rule is to leave nothing living. That would include Xavier."

Logan waited.

Lock's forehead wrinkled with thought. "He is a powerful psychic. I don't know if I'd be able to track him down again. This could be the only opportunity to rid the world of his evil."

Logan said nothing, patient and present.

She looked at him. "What do you say?"

He slowly shook his head. "I just don't know," he replied. "I don't know if the greater crime is to let him live so he can wreck more lives, or to kill him and accept the responsibility of his death. I usta know more than I do now; seen too much, I got too many of my own questions for me to answer this for you. You gotta do what you feel is right, then you gotta live with it."

"What about you?" she said. "If I let him live, you'll just walk away? After seeing what he can do?"

"It's about trust, Bets," Logan said. "I trust your judgment. You've been in his head. You decide."

"What if I don't want to?"

Logan looked at her closely. "You don't decide this now then you'll have to make this decision over and over the rest of your life. It'll ghost you, Bets. Believe me, I know about puttin off decisions. You gotta go head first into it and accept the consequences. Preferably before he wakes up."

She bowed her head for a moment, then raised her chin to face the slumped figure. "He will live. I am not a ninja, never wanted to be a ninja. Their talents and abilities were forced on me, but I choose to remain human." She faced Logan. "It is better to walk in the light than to be chained to shadow."

He grinned, with no words to say. He gave her a quick hug. "Okay, let's get outa here," he muttered.

_The First Rule. Leave nothing living_. Lock hesitated, her eyes widening.

Her link to Silent was diminished to a vestige, either by Silent's choice or Xavier's will or her decision to turn from the path of the ninja. Still, through it, she saw what Silent wished her to see—

Xavier unconscious, so Silent slipped easily from her restraints. Armory. The mansion had an armory. With C4 explosives, with detonators—through the house—enough to—

"Logan!" Lock said urgently. "Now! We leave _now!_"

"What about him?" Logan asked, pointing.

"He'll be safer here," she said quickly. "His people will return shortly, and this room can withstand almost anything. We are not so lucky," she added as they sprinted through the halls of the Chateau. Then they were outside, running, running.

_Kurt, run_, Lock thought to him. _The house_. She showed him. There was a sharp crack, she lost him.

The mansion exploded, blasting into the sky, collapsing outward, shredded and gutted with the uncontrollable explosions that tore through it. The crashing rumble loosened the mountain, and an avalanche swept down to bury the remainder of the site.

Much further down on the slope, a hand punched out of the snow followed by a damp and irritated man. Lock joined him.

"I suppose you pranced along the snow and didn't fall in," Logan muttered.

She suppressed a smile. "Something like that," she agreed.

"Is Kurt okay?" Logan asked.

Her eyes unfocused, then she covered her mouth and almost giggled. "He's so _testy_ when I find him. He's fine, and moving away now. Silent is clear too," she said in a more subdued voice.

"How about baldy?"

"His people are on their way back even now. He'll live, and they'll dig him out."

Logan grunted and managed to stand. "I swear, Somethin about me is just death to buildings." He dusted himself off. "I should warn Stark that if I'm there for long Stark International is gonna be a crater. He should start working on Plan B right away."

She looked at him. "When I called to you earlier, you didn't tell me you were bringing backup."

He shrugged. "Figured if I did, then you'd know. Better you not know, then you can't give it away. I didn't tell you I was gonna check Stark's satellite photos of the area to find the house, either. Or that I was comin in on snowmobile after you ladies had a head start."

"Fair enough," she shrugged. "You handled that very well," she added.

"Thanks," he said. "It's nuthin, though. I mean, that's what friends are for." He grinned.

"So _that's_ what friends are for," she observed, unable to suppress her smile this time.

"Well," he said, heading down the slope, "that and ever now and then, if yer lucky, makin you a good plate of franks n beans."

Hardly feeling the cold, they left the steaming and shattered mountain slope and headed back towards civilization.


	21. Patriots & Thieves

**April 3, 2002**

"I hate flyin," the short hairy man muttered as he stared through the small porthole at the clouds far below. "Leastaways in _this_ flyin can I can smoke." He tugged out a cigar, bit off the end, and fished his lighter out of his pocket. "You ever been to Russia, Stark?" he asked around the bobbling cigar as he cupped his hand over the flame and lit up.

"A few times," the man in the complicated metal chair shrugged. "Business." He tapped a few buttons and checked the readings on the screen he faced.

"How's the diagnostic?" Logan asked.

"Good as can be expected," Stark said. His normally slick hair was dull, his face lined with weariness and pain. He seemed older than his years, and his shoulders were not as straight as they had been.

The door at the front of the compartment opened; a slender and attractive woman stepped in. "Well, gentlemen, we have two hours before we touch down. Let's go over it again, then I promise to leave you alone."

"Go on," Stark said, his voice odd as he adjusted a setting. His eyes were a bit glazed.

She looked at him for a long moment. "Right," she said, shaking her head to clear it. "Okay. We're headed to Kirov, where you purchased the nuclear power plant formerly owned by the state but now available for privatization. We should land about two in the afternoon local time. Your emissary, Tam Lawson, has arranged for a meeting where you can get acquainted with the sellers and sign some paperwork. We plan to meet them at four, then have dinner, socialize, and sleep it off in the hotel. Next morning you take a tour of the facility at eight, and we're airborne headed home departing at noon." She sighed and tugged her glasses off. "And I wish you'd land this bird, refuel, and head home right now."

"You already briefed us on the danger, I am aware and I have taken precautions," Stark said.

"I am still concerned, and about more than the threat of the mob." Her eyes settled on him directly.

He met her eyes, more alert. "Thank you," he said. She was dismissed. She gritted her teeth for just a moment, then nodded to him and returned to the cockpit.

"Be right back," Logan muttered, and he followed her.

Stark sighed, looked at the screens, and tweaked a few more settings.

**xXx**

Logan made sure the door was shut. "Don't let him get to you, he's just crazy and maybe a little suicidal," Logan said with his best grin.

"Who says he's getting to me?" Potts snapped.

"Have it yer way," Logan shrugged.

She sighed. "He won't hear any more of the threat, so you've got to listen."

"I'm all ears," he said, settling down on the bench seat behind the pilot. She sat next to him, very close, her eyes earnest.

"Wilson Fisk, of Fisk Enterprises, was behind some local guerrillas that attacked and bombed a plant in Brazil. I also have reason to believe he's behind the class action suit in Canada, and if our reports hold true to form he's working something malicious out in the Congo, where we have a significant coal operation. Fisk is trying to move in on Stark International, and I am worried about Russia. With the number of gun slinging mobsters in Russia after the fall of Communism, it would be easy for Fisk to arrange for an attack that couldn't be traced back to him. Why won't Stark listen to me? If Fisk is going to take a shot at him, there's no better place than Kirov."

Logan patted her hand awkwardly. "Don't worry about it any more," he said. "Stark didn't bring me along for my acute business sense. I'll take care of him."

"Yeah?" she shot back. "Who will take care of _you_?"

"Stark," Logan said, his tone final. "He has so far. Don't worry. It's beyond worry now anyway. Trust me to take care of him. For better or for worse, we'll get through this."

"Good luck, hotshot," she said, her tone subdued.

He grinned as he rose to his feet. "I'm all about luck." He winked at her, and headed back into Stark's compartment.

"So whaddya know?" Logan said, walking up to Stark's array.

"So far so good," Stark said in a strained voice. "This girdle accomplishes same thing traction does. If all goes well, I'll heal this broken spine with just minor nerve damage."

Logan looked at the blinking screens with their readouts and their outpouring of data. "I can't make any sense of all that," he said, gesturing, "but wouldn't you be better off taking six months off to heal up right?"

"Logan?" Stark said.

"Yeah boss."

"Didn't ask for your opinion. Don't care for it," he said lightly. "Please sit down and shut up."

Logan squinted at him. "Not sure why I bother talking to you," he said, and he sat down and took a deep drag on his cigar. He just couldn't let it go. "You want to die, Stark?" he asked. "That what this is all about?"

Stark tapped a command into his keyboard, then turned the chair. "Maybe you weren't listening."

"You gonna fire me?" Logan said with a lopsided grin. "Sure as hell can't kick my ass. Why didn't you bring the armor, Stark? You _know_ this is gonna get dicey."

"You forget yourself. As my employee—"

"No no no," Logan said with a gesture. "You aint pullin rank on me. You hired me to help you, and I mean to. But I'm not gonna sit still while you spank me with your ego. Now I asked you a question. You want to die?"

Stark stared at him for a long moment. "I was hasty to hire you," he said finally. "I see that now. And to answer your forward and inappropriate question, I honestly don't know. We are going to Kirov," he said, turning his chair back around, "to let Fate do what Fate does whether we like it or not."

Logan had more to say, but he bit it back and chewed his cigar instead.

**xXx**

"Cripes," Logan muttered. "Wind's still got teeth in April."

Stark, Logan, and Potts headed across the thin crust of snow on the airfield towards the small knot of men in dark coats that waited for them by the fence.

"Did they give you trouble at customs?" asked a thin man with large spectacles and a tight mouth.

"No," Stark smiled, smooth as silk. "A glance at our bags was sufficient. Did you expect trouble?"

The thin man hesitated, then tried to smile. "No, no, of course not. Welcome to Kirov, Mr. Stark."

"Thank you, Mr. Lawson," Stark said. "Let's get out of this wind."

"Of course," Mr. Lawson nodded. "I've been here long enough to forget how shocking it is. What, springtime in the States?"

"Yes," Stark said shortly. They split up, piling into three cars. The caravan wound its way through the cramped streets toward the grim face of the hotel.

Lawson turned from where he sat in the front seat, and he smiled at Logan and Stark. "We'll go ahead and check you in, get your luggage arranged, then we'll go to the restaurant. Okay?"

"Fine," Stark said, his eyes unfocused. Logan's expression darkened, and he looked out at the run-down city. "They got real small cars here," he muttered to himself. Lawson suppressed a smile.

A short time later they pulled up in front of a restaurant and piled out. They were immediately seated. The air was hazy with smoke, and voices were low and hushed through the restaurant.

"Nice eatery," Logan said, looking around. He spotted another well-dressed group entering the restaurant.

"Ah, Mr. Krymanski," Lawson said, moving to greet the newcomers. "Glad you could make it."

"Yes, we speak English tonight," the thin man said. He peered at the Americans from under bushy eyebrows. A nasty scar marked the side of his face. He sat at the table, and his people sat as well. Fourteen were now gathered at the long table.

"You understand, Mister Stark, that privatization is a new idea for us even after all these years," the tall man said in his slow, heavily marked speech. He seemed to taste the words, roll them in his mouth before reluctantly releasing them. "The idea of turning a source of State power over to an American company is unsettling."

Stark smiled. "My company is not American, Mr. Krymanski," he said. "It's international. I don't let patriotism get in the way of good business."

"Mm, those are reassuring words," Mr. Krymanski said. "We'll see how it plays out. What caught your interest in the Kirov plant?"

"Public service," Stark shrugged. "Your plant was due for an overhaul five years ago, and you're red-lining safety limits in multiple areas. You can't afford to repair it, and the people shouldn't have to go without power. If the plant melts down, well," he said, his smile dangerously wide, "the world can't afford another Chernobyl."

"And, of course, profit," Krymanski said, his eyes gleaming.

"I don't see the necessity of dividing the two motives," Stark replied, meeting his gaze. "If it's good for you and it's good for me, then why bicker over the details?"

"I wish you the best of luck," Krymanski said. "The very best."

They got down to brass tacks.

**xXx**

"Nasty cold broccoli soup," Logan grumbled. "That coffee had motor oil in it, I swear. Those stupid itty bitty cups they serve it in—"

Stark sighed. "Logan? At least until we get back to the hotel?"

Logan lapsed into silence and watched the streets roll by outside the window.

Stark breathed deep and ran his hands through his shimmering hair. "Back to the hotel, then tomorrow tour the facility, then back to the States. So far so good."

Logan played with his lighter.

A few minutes later, they rolled down a ramp to the hotel's parking garage. Logan's eyes narrowed.

Stark gasped as Logan's hard hand snatched his coat and tugged him; Logan was tumbling out of the car! Stark breathed out as he hit the pavement and rolled—

tunk Hwissss

The car suddenly lit up, an explosion tearing it to pieces and scattering flame and shrapnel over Logan as he dove to cover Stark. The shock wave shoved him over, still gripping Stark, and Logan rolled to his feet. In his grip, Stark was amazed at the small man's raw strength as Logan slung him up and around behind a pillar.

"Light anti-tank weapon," Logan muttered to Stark. "How exceedin unkind. Stay put." He bounded into the shadows, leaving Stark behind the pillar. Stark looked around his cover to see the flaming wreckage of the car; he had never learned the driver's name. For a moment, he was grateful that Potts and Lawson were wrapping up the details with Krymanski, and not burning corpses in the destroyed car.

Stark heard a clatter as the empty missile tube was tossed aside. Someone was coming from the bottom of the ramp, from the lower level. His would-be assassin. Tremendous time for Logan to leave. He moved around the pillar to face the incoming attacker.

The man walking towards him was over six feet tall, built like a weight lifter under his parka and snow pants. A ski mask hid his features. In his hands he held an AK-47. He chambered a round with a single slick movement and brought the weapon to bear while striding towards Stark.

Stark spun back around the pillar as the assault rifle opened up, chopping chunks of aged concrete off and snapping against rebar, chipping Stark's cover away as the shooter inexorably approached.

Snikt.

The rifle abruptly stopped with a screech of violated metal as it was sheared in two. Stark stepped around the other side of the pillar to watch.

Logan's claws slid back up into his arms. "Look, Ruskie, I don't want to kill you. Who do you work for?"

The big man lunged at him, but Logan twirled out of the way and smashed a punch into the side of his head. The man clanged against the wall and shoved away from it. Logan shook his fist.

"Oh, we got body armor. Neat," he said, grinning. "Let's dance." His razor-sharp claws distended.

The big man hopped to the side and lashed out, but Logan ducked and angled his claws to catch his attacker's wrist and forearm. The large man grunted, a peculiar metallicized sound, and jerked away. The parka hung from that arm in shreds, and Logan narrowed his eyes.

"Hey," he said.

The huge man's backhand caught him in that distracted moment; with a loud clang, the metallic hand caught Logan's metallic skull and flung him back, sailing through the air with the trajectory of a missile. Logan smacked into the concrete wall, crushing a crater in it but rebounding with the force of the blow. He thudded to the ground in a shower of concrete chunks, unable to gasp, deeply disoriented.

"Flamin… robot…" he gasped, blood freely flowing from his face.

His attacker slowly turned to face Stark, who looked him over fearlessly. Their eyes met.

"You don't want to kill me," Stark said confidently, quietly, almost hypnotically. "If you did you would have by now."

For a moment, there was uncertainty in the posture of his attacker. Stark smiled and closed in.

"We all have problems, friend. Maybe I can help you with yours." He fished out a cigarette and took his eyes from his assailant to light it. His hands did not shake. He squinted at the motionless Russian. "You're no robot. What's your name?"

Logan managed to regain his feet, and he walked a weaving path back towards his employer.

"Come on," Stark said, soothing. "Let's go to my room and talk about this."

"I… have failed," the huge man said, his voice an echoing metallic whisper.

"Not yet," Stark disagreed. "You could still kill me. Let's go talk this through."

"What?" Logan winced. "You gonna parlay voo after he plays handball with my skull? Stark, I got this." He squared off.

"Stand down, Logan," Stark said. "I want to hear what our friend here has to say."

Logan stared at him, speechless, then at the towering assailant who stood unmoving before Stark. He shrugged. "Yer the boss," he muttered.

The three of them moved towards the elevator.

**xXx**

In a flurry of activity, Logan locked the doors, shuttered the windows, and placed the scrambler on the table. He turned the scrambler on to fry any electronic listening devices or cameras. Stark seated himself in one of the comfortable chairs, Logan stood beside him, and the hulking attacker sat on the couch.

"This is… most confusing," the big Russian said, his strange voice echoing itself slightly. He slowly pulled the ski mask off and looked at them, taking in their reaction.

Logan gasped, his eyes wide; Stark just nodded. "Tell us your story," he said.

The young man sighed, a metallic whistle, and looked at the floor. His face was a perfectly lifelike steel mask, as mobile as flesh, and his hair seemed to be a solid mass of black steel. He did not blink, and his eyes had no pupils or irises; the young man appeared to be made of steel.

"It no longer matters," he said, "even now it is too late for any of us to escape. What is the danger, then, of me revealing myself to you? My name is Piotr Nikolaevitch Rasputin. I came here to kill you to protect my country."

"Melodramatic cuss, aint he," Logan muttered. "What kinda armor is that?"

"It is my flesh, disrespectful oaf," Rasputin said.

"Former KGB?" asked Stark.

"Yes," Rasputin said, bowing his head. "Yes. Formerly."

"So you are forced to do this deed because you're infected with Tymaz Nine, right?" Stark smiled.

Speechless, the man of steel stared at Stark, his mouth hanging open. Logan noted his teeth and tongue were steel too.

"How… What…"

"What if I told you I had the countermeasure for Tymaz Nine?" Stark said.

"Do you have it… here?" Rasputin asked. "Where you could reach it in less than thirteen hours?"

"I don't make it a practice to carry any with me," Stark said slowly. He looked at his bodyguard. "Logan?"

Logan stood with his mouth shut in a firm line, his arms crossed over his chest, not saying a word.

"Logan?"

"Maybe I got some, maybe I don't. I got some luggage on the plane. If I got some, it's there." He looked away. "You can fly home in thirteen hours and get yer own."

"But we cannot leave yet," Rasputin said earnestly. "It is not possible. Disaster looms, and of all the world perhaps only we three have the power to try to stop it."

"Can't take much more a this," Logan gritted out.

"Why the thirteen hour deadline?" Stark asked.

"After thirteen hours I will no longer be able to hold my metallic form," Rasputin said. "I will become flesh once again, and when that happens, Tymaz Nine will grip my lungs and my heart, and squeeze the life from me. This was my chance to redeem myself."

"Whose idea was it to kill me?" Stark asked absently.

Rasputin hesitated. "Mine," he said.

"Really?" Stark blinked, raising his eyebrow as a smile threatened.

"Yes," Rasputin nodded. "My employer agreed with me that killing you would send the message we need to send without harming the motherland. However, should I fail… He will continue on with the original plan. To demonstrate to the West that they are not welcome here. To show America that it is too dangerous for them to interfere. To block our country from all those who would take advantage of Russia's temporary weakness."

"Spit it out already," Logan growled. "What's the original plan?"

Rasputin stared at him. It was unsettling; Logan knew Rasputin was looking him in the eye, but the Russian's eye had no pupil, no iris; it was smooth as steel.

"The original plan," he said slowly, "was to turn your new power plant into a bomb."

There was a moment of silence.

"When?" Stark asked.

"Tomorrow during the morning shift sometime," Rasputin replied. "They may move up the timeline, for by now they know I have failed." His voice quivered.

"Criminitly," Logan muttered. "At least you picked the right people to fail on. We can stop this plot. We have to. You in?"

"Of course, comrade," Rasputin said earnestly. "I must atone for my part in this evil. The lives of thousands of innocents are at stake!"

"We gotta stop this, right Stark?"

Stark looked up at him, distracted. "Hm? Yes, of course we do, Logan. How far is the plant from here?"

"About ten klicks," the Russian said. "An easy jog."

"We'll be taking a car," Stark murmured. "Who are we up against?"

"That is another story." Rasputin took a long, whistling, metallic breath. "The one who leads them, who can give me the countermeasure for my… condition… his name is Dimitri Bukharin. He is a bad man. When he was in the KGB, he used the power of the State to further his own ends. Now that the state is weak, he is using his power over those too weak to protect themselves. He has built himself a small army, funded by the misery of the masses. He is scum, comrades, and dangerous. He will lead a small army to destroy this plant by whatever means necessary."

"What was their original timeline?" Stark asked.

Rasputin looked him square in the eye. "Dawn."

Stark glanced at his watch. "Okay. You're the native, how much time does that give us?"

"About seven hours," Rasputin said.

"Right," Stark nodded. "Rasputin, get out there and round us up some plainclothes; I think we'll be conspicuous wearing this."

"I think you'll be conspicuous wearing almost anything," Rasputin said doubtfully.

"Then your task is difficult but rewarding. We don't have a lot of time." The Russian nodded, stood, and headed for the door. He glanced both ways before strolling into the hallway, hood on his parka up, steel glinting under the fringe.

"Wanted to ditch him so I could follow him to his contacts, right?" Logan said with a grin.

"Not at all," Stark replied. "Get back to the plane. If you have some Tymaz Nine countermeasure, get it. If not, we'll just have to wrap this up and get back to the States as fast as we can."

"You trust the Ruskie?" Logan asked, squinting at Stark.

"I don't think it matters if we trust him or not," Stark said. "This will play out the way it was meant to. The only thing we can do is try to stop that plant from going up."

"Can't let you go, Stark," Logan said, shaking his head. "Without your armor, you'd be in unacceptable danger. Fer cryin out loud, it's gonna be three against a small army out there, and all it takes is one ricochet and you're Stark Soup."

"Listen," Stark said through his teeth. "I'm tired of your constant bickering. I am in control here. This is _my_ plant they're trying to blow up, Logan. While I'm here to say something about it, those filthy thugs are _not_ going to turn my property into a weapon. You got that? You hear that through your metal skull? Now go to the airplane and get the drug." His eyes were cold.

"What about Potts and Lawson and your people?"

"Lawson's on his own; he's lived this long," Stark said. "Potts, though. I'll check on her while you're at the plane."

Logan stared at him for a few seconds. "I hope," he said slowly, "you enjoyed me workin for you. It seems I was too hasty when I signed on."

"You still here?" Stark asked in a soft, lethal voice.

Logan left.


	22. Arms Race

**April 4, 2002**

Stark was sitting in the darkened room when Rasputin nudged the door open and peered inside. Stark snapped on the desk lamp next to his chair. "Come in," he said. "Shut the door."

Rasputin walked in, tossing the armload of coveralls and boots on the bed. "I found what I could. I hope this will work."

"You do realize Logan believes you will betray us when it comes down to it," Stark said.

Rasputin froze. "What do _you_ think?"

Stark shrugged. "Whether you know it or not, this Bukharin fellow probably intended to get you close to us all along. You're an archetype playing true to form, and that's too easy to be real."

"What do you plan to do?" Rasputin asked, squaring off with him.

Stark sighed. "I need your help, Rasputin. Logan's good, but I think this is beyond him. No matter where your loyalties lie, I don't believe you'd be willing to nuke and irradiate a large section of Russia to prop up a madman."

Logan scowled through the peephole. He could waltz into that plant, nail the mobsters, and waltz out. This was definitely his speed. Stark just didn't know what he had going for him. Logan glanced over at the unconscious man slumped on the desk, then returned his eye to the peephole. He was looking out of the bottom of the picture frame through a peephole that anyone without hyper senses would have missed. Logan glanced at his watch to see where he was in his fictional trip to the airplane. Hmph. On his way back. He returned his attention to the hole.

"No," Rasputin said slowly. "No, I wouldn't detonate the nuclear plant. No matter the cost." He gestured helplessly. "Men like Bukharin… they frustrate me. He could be great. He could be an advocate for the people, to do so much good. But instead, he commands his army and crushes his enemies and ruins the lives of the poor who are just struggling to survive, to feed their families. What could make a man do that?"

"Greed," Stark said simply. "What did you do for the KGB?"

Rasputin straightened. "I was a bodyguard," he said stiffly. "I stood by important personages of the state, and if someone tried to assassinate them I shielded them with my body."

"You're a long way from home," Stark said. "So to speak."

"My home… I have no home. Not anymore. Just a country," Rasputin said slowly, a tremendous sorrow behind his voice. He turned away.

Logan rolled his eyes, then stepped out the secret door into the back of the closet in the suite next door, then to the hall and around the corner to the door. He opened it and stepped in.

"Did you find the countermeasure?" Stark asked.

"Nope," Logan said. "Forgot to bring it."

Stark was silent a moment. "Not like you, Logan," he said.

"Maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do," Logan retorted, his voice tight. "How is Potts?"

"Fine," Stark gestured. "Lawson heard about the attack and took her to a safehouse they've built here as per standard operating procedures with Stark International. They should be fine."

"How do you know Lawson heard about the attack? Did you talk to him on the phone?"

"I checked with the restaurant," Stark said coolly. "They said that Lawson and Potts left together about half an hour after the attack."

"Somebody spoke English?" Logan pressed.

Stark narrowed his eyes. "Don't grill me, Logan. I said it's fine. It's fine. We have other concerns."

"I managed to get us a car," Rasputin said. "You two can drive close to the plant, leave the car and approach on foot."

"And you?" Logan asked.

"I will jog the distance; it is a faster way to go and I do not tire."

"Not a chance, bright eyes," Logan said, shaking his head. "You're with us."

Rasputin looked at Stark, who nodded. "We stick together," Stark said. "Otherwise this gets tactically complicated. Let's get moving." He stood, facing the other two.

"Yer gonna need a gun," Logan said.

"No," Stark replied. "I don't intend to kill anyone. I'm going to take care of the bomb. I have extensive knowledge of detonation devices, electronics, and traps. Unless one of you is similarly qualified?"

A moment of silence.

"Let's get moving," Stark said.

**xXx**

The truck rumbled along the empty road as the first hints of dawn colored the dark skyline to the east.

Logan shifted gears. "Didja notice bright eyes got us a different vehicle when he had to come?" he muttered.

"Sure did, Logan," Stark murmured, looking out the window. "Do you think Rasputin would have fit in that sub-compact? Logan, you need to get past your suspicions."

"Hey, _one_ of us should be suspicious," Logan snapped, and his mouth shut.

"There," Stark said, pointing at the dim lights some distance away. "That's the plant."

Logan drove the truck off the side of the road and parked it in some brush. It was conspicuous, but not the first abandoned vehicle on this stretch. He hopped out as Rasputin hit the ground with a thud.

Stark yawned, a jawcracker.

"You gonna be okay?" Logan asked as he walked around the front of the truck.

Stark waved him away and popped pills into his mouth. He swallowed. "Jet lag," he muttered. "Been going nonstop for over twelve hours now since touchdown."

"So what's the plan, chief?" Logan asked, his eyes hard.

"Simple is best," Stark replied. "Rasputin, go in and get their attention, try to single-handedly stop this. Meanwhile, Logan and I will infiltrate and get to the bomb. If this Bukharin fellow has any brains, he'll set explosives by the reactor core, to keep the graphite cooling rods from entering the reaction chamber so it melts down. He could either sabotage the controls or blow the room up. So I'll head there. Draw their fire, Rasputin."

"That I am qualified to do," Rasputin agreed. They headed for the facility, still almost two klicks away. They did not speak as they trudged through the cold pre-dawn, they simply endured. Finally they could see the fence and the buildings in greater detail.

Stark and Logan moved around to the side, headed for the coolant towers. Rasputin knelt and waited, giving them a head start.

Logan looked over his shoulder at the kneeling giant, narrowed his eyes, and _hoped_ Rasputin was just giving them a head start.

**xXx**

Rasputin peered through the fence. Perimeter guards at ten meters, armed with assault rifles. Such puny weapons could not harm him. Snipers in the towers; those bullets could sting, but he would survive their hits. Bazookas, one on either side of the road approach. Sensible. There, on the walkway—

His eyes narrowed. Bukharin was supervising personally. And he expected trouble.

On the walkway, a man in brilliant red armor stood with his fists on his hips. He wore prototype armor developed in the darkest years before the fall, armor technology developed in case the Cold War heated up. With a rush of adrenaline, Rasputin realized the armor was staring at him too.

The armor leaped from the walkway and fired a backpack jet, guided by boot jets, that carried him over Rasputin.

"Hello," came the mocking voice in Russian. "Seems you've failed, Little Brother. Have you come to stop the plan?"

Rasputin tucked his head down and sprinted for the fence, followed by haunting laughter. Bullets rang off Rasputin's armor flesh as he charged into and through the fence; these men were worse than animals. He did not spare them.

He slapped one, killing him instantly, and he tore a fence pole up and hurled it through the sniper in the tower. Tearing loose a section of fence, he swung it like a net; it did not slow down much as it lashed across the row of soldiers shooting from beneath the walkway. They spun away, most of them no longer able to scream.

He nimbly ran to the side, launched off a tower support, and crashed with his body into the emplacement of one of the bazooka gunners; the concrete alcove collapsed with a disturbing crunch. Tearing loose a chunk of concrete, he threw it through the slit in the other alcove, nailing the other bazooka gunner with a single hit. The other soldiers pulled back.

Rasputin faced the armor.

A mechanical filtered chuckle drifted from the armor as it hovered on medium burn, ten meters above the ground. "And here I thought you were a patriot," the armor said.

"Speak not to me of patriotism, butcher!" bellowed the steel man as he dug in and ripped loose a slab of concrete.

A compact minigun snapped out of a compartment on the armor's forearm, and caseless explosive rounds tore into Rasputin; he staggered, and shifted the slab to cover him from the withering hail of fire; the slab cracked, then shattered as he sprinted away.

Bukharin laughed, and burned through the air after him.

**xXx**

The soldier raced down the stairs, speaking excitedly in Russian. Stark and Logan exchanged a glance, and Logan shrugged.

"Wait here," he whispered. "You sure this is the coolant control?"

Stark nodded. Logan stole around the corner, moving low and silent. Stark listened. The soldiers were having a heated discussion; an argument about what to do next.

It abruptly stopped. Low voices, full of suspicion. Then the door opened, and a spine-chilling growl rolled through, and there were sounds of combat; a few guns fired wildly, Stark heard the meaty smack of fist into flesh, and in five seconds the fight was over. He peeked around the corner, looking into the dark room.

Logan snapped the light on. "They don't do so good in the dark," he said.

Stark saw thick red blood oozing off his fist. He raised his eyebrow.

"Fittin reward for the one who kindly showed me where the bomb trigger is," Logan said, expressionless. He held up a box that looked like it belonged to a remote control car. "Git in here so we can shut the damned door."

Stark walked in and saw four soldiers sprawled in various positions. Two were bleeding; one was on the floor on the other side of the room, nearly sheared in half. His blood had sprayed over a device about a meter on each side; a pile of C4 with a detonator that was steadily clicking away.

"Do your thing," Logan said, nodding at it.

They faintly heard the scream of a minigun outside.

"Logan," Stark said slowly, "maybe you better check on Rasputin."

"I'm on it," Logan said. "You got enough firepower around here to knock down lotsa Commies, Stark." He kicked an assault rifle across the floor, watching it slide to a stop by Stark's foot. "Don't get shot." He turned, passed through the door, and silently vanished down the hall.

Stark closed and locked the door, picking up an assault rifle on his way back to the bomb. He squatted down, looked it over, pulled out a kerchief and smeared some blood off. He recognized the detonator type.

The bisected Russian had a tool kit by his body. Stark snapped the kit open. Time to get to work.

Hardly breathing, Stark teased the housing off. There, the timer. Five minutes forty seconds.

It was timed to blow with the soldiers still on site.

Stark's smile was grim. No wonder the counter wasn't visible from the outside.

**xXx**

Rasputin lay with his back to the wall, his vast chest heaving as he gasped for breath. He glanced down at the shining puckers in his steel hide where the bullets slammed him, and he wondered if he would live long enough to see those transformed into shallow cuts on his flesh.

The crimson armor that pursued him shut down one minigun, retracting it. Bukharin blasted around to hover near Rasputin once again, a mere ten meters away. Crossing its arms over its chest, the armor looked very satisfied.

"I will beat you, Bukharin," Rasputin shouted hoarsely, the metallic tang in his voice resonating.

"Hah," replied the armor. "You cannot fly, tin man."

Moving as fast as he could, Rasputin spun hurling a chunk of the wall at the armor. The armor blasted to the side, then hung in the air on low burn. Far away, the hurled chunk hit the pavement.

"Is that the best you can do?"

"I will do better," Rasputin said, rising. "I will defeat you."

The shoulder plates of the armor popped up, revealing mini-missiles. Some launched, with a sharp snap and hiss, tearing towards the steel man. Rasputin leaped, and one hit where he had been, one slammed his calf, one plowed into his hip. He screamed as he was thrown through the air, smashing into the wall of the office wing.

Rasputin rolled through the hole he made and dropped flat. "Come and get me, Bukharin!" he shouted.

"Ah ah, no, I will not," chuckled the armor. "I prefer to stay out here, where I can fly. I, of all people, know what you can do with those metal fists of yours, Rasputin. Besides, in five minutes this whole place," he said gesturing widely and looking around, "will be a crater. The timer cannot be stopped. Of us all, only I have the speed to reach safe distance in time and the protection if I don't quite make it. So you have one minute to stop me or I escape and you die. I like those odds. Even if you escaped, you have only a few hours before you die anyway."

"Sounds t'me," growled a voice by Rasputin's ear, "like you need somethin ta throw."

**xXx**

The nest of wires was exposed, and Stark coolly picked through them. There, the ground. There, the trigger. There, the decoy. But the reflex array would trigger the bomb if the current dropped. He nodded to himself. Not a bad bomb, but even an amateur like himself could defeat it. He snipped the wire, not even holding his breath.

He heard a click, then a whir. He smiled broadly. Then the bomb beeped.

Reluctantly tipping the top of the bomb case back, he saw an auxiliary digital timer. Twenty eight seconds. Twenty seven. Twenty six.

For a moment, just a moment, Stark felt paralyzed. The stakes had never been higher. Not only his life, but thousands of others would be forfeit if he failed now.

Only a genius could figure out this device and disarm it in twenty five seconds.

The question hit him like a faceful of cold water: "Do I want to live?" he whispered. "Enough… to fight for it?"

The number counting down was hypnotic; so peaceful, and there were worse ways to die.

**xXx**

Bukharin glanced at his suit timer. Another forty seconds to enjoy taunting the dead, then he really must be streaking off. He checked his power levels. Running smoothly. He had restrained himself from donning the armor for far too long. He smiled.

Like a diver cutting through the surface of a pool, a man streaked out of a window in the office wing, slicing through the air at incredible speed right towards the armor. Too startled to fire, Bukharin tilted his jets to fling his armor out of the way, but the man was moving like he had been shot out of a cannon, too fast! At the last moment, the armor tilted out of his reach—

Snikt—

Bukharin let out a hoarse bellow as pain sheared through his leg, pain worse than bullet wounds. The flying man had ejected claws from his hand and rammed them through Bukharin's retreating ankle!

The claws managed to change the direction of the flying man's momentum, slinging him around to clang to a halt gripping Bukharin's belt from behind, right under the backpack jet. He swung precariously around to the side of the armor as Bukharin fired his afterburners; Logan got out of the way of the exhaust.

He popped claws from his other hand and rammed them into the side of Bukharin's knee; the claws punched all the way through the armor, the leg within, and the armor on the other side. Bukharin nearly fainted from the raw agony; the world was spinning and for a moment his gyroscopics lost track of "up".

His assailant said something uncouth in English. Then the claws tore free, and as Bukharin wobbled without one stabilizing boot jet and with an additional weight (so heavy, for such a small man) too late he realized what the clawed missile was doing.

He understood right before the claws punched through his jet pack.

Locked together, they sailed down and rammed into the earth.

Jarred and a bit dizzy, Bukharin pushed himself up. The small man had survived the fall and he was… jumping back?

Heavy footfalls.

Bukharin struggled to rise before it was too late.

Before Rasputin reached him.

**xXx**

Stark touched something primal inside; something that had been lulled to sleep by the power, the wealth, the detachment. Something in him suddenly blazed; something in him desperately wanted to _live._

He bent to his work, focused, and time slipped away; his mind applied itself to the electronics as it had not been applied to anything in too long. Seconds slipped away as his deft fingers and his deft mind tugged at the deadly puzzle. He uncovered the pulse center; jury rigged the processor, autokinetic feedback switch, timer mesh recalibrated, bought himself another ten seconds, but that's it; then the heart of the weapon.

He held his breath and clipped the wires.

**xXx**

"Butcher!" roared Rasputin. Bukharin popped out his other minigun, the one with the armor piercing rounds made just for the steel man. Raised the gun.

"Aint sportin," came a voice from the side, and those horrific claws caught the gun in an uppercut. There was no time for revenge; Bukharin leaped to the side to try to break up Rasputin's momentum.

Didn't make much difference.

The vast steel fist crashed into the armor with such fury sparks flew, and Bukharin found himself airborne again, however briefly. He was conscious enough to wish he had not hit a wall.

Rasputin leaped, and Bukharin registered his movement too late:

The steel man tucked into a cannonball in mid-air and smashed all his weight and velocity into the red armor. Both of them went through the concrete and rebar wall into the offices.

Logan peered after them with academic interest, then pulled out a cigar and lit it up. Clanging and banging sounds like a blacksmith gone mad came from the dark hole, and grunted Russian words Logan didn't want translated. Then all was silent.

Rasputin stumbled out of the hole, red paint scraped on some lacerations on his metal form. "Did Stark succeed?" he asked intently.

Logan glanced at his watch. "We'll know in two minutes," he said. He took a long pull on his cigar. "Let's go find him."


	23. Friends in Need

Logan knocked on the door. "It's me, Logan. You okay, Stark?"

Stark opened the door. "Gentlemen," he said, his face haggard.

"You beat the bomb?" Logan asked.

Stark nodded. "I sure did," he replied.

Logan looked deep into his eyes for a moment and sniffed. A smile played across his features. "Good for you," he said. He jerked his thumb backwards. "Rasputin schooled the Crimson Comrade there—"

"Do not joke," echoed Rasputin's voice from behind him. "His was a sacred trust, to protect our leaders from traitorous cowards, and to make life better for the people who supported those who led us. Bukharin perverted that trust into greed and madness, bent on getting revenge and power instead of protecting the weak. He is no comrade of mine."

"Anyway, we won," Logan said wearily.

"You coming with us, Rasputin?" asked Stark.

The big steel man sighed. "I do not know. I cannot stay here, for my life is forfeit if I remain after the events of this day. But where else to go, what else to do?"

"Tell you what," Stark said. "You come with me, a contractor for international relations. Sound good?"

"If I live," Rasputin said softly. "If I live."

"Come on," Logan muttered. "Let's get to the plane and find out where Potts is holed up."

Scant minutes later, their borrowed military truck pulled out and they left the oddly silent plant.

**xXx**

Stark pulled the truck up by a grim-faced man. Several armed guards stood around Stark's plane on the tarmac. "What's going on here, Green?" he asked.

"Hello, Mister Stark," Green replied. "We're just looking after the plane. We chased off the mobsters that tried to sabotage it, and Ms. Potts is safely aboard."

"What about Lawson?"

"He's fine, in the safehouse. As per standing orders," the man said. Stark nodded. He got out of the truck and headed for the plane, Logan and Rasputin with him. The gangplank lowered, and Potts ran down to greet them.

"Stark! Are you okay?" she asked.

"I tolja I'd take care a him," Logan said.

"I'm fine," Stark said, looking sideways at Logan. "Really… I'm fine." He looked into her eyes, and she raised her eyebrows.

But there was no time for talk. They piled onto the jet, and it taxied for takeoff.

The four of them moved to the back and strapped in, Logan sniffing and glancing around.

"Is everything alright?" Stark asked him.

"Yeah," Logan said. "Just checking."

Then they were airborne.

Below them, the countryside slipped away.

"Are you… hurt?" Potts asked Rasputin. She looked over the slashes and dents in his steel form.

He shifted uncomfortably. "I will be, when I return to flesh," he said.

"I like the sound of that," she muttered under her breath, eyeing his huge chest and massy arms as he freed himself from the seat buckles.

"Lucky for you," Stark said, "this craft is equipped with considerable medical facilities. Let's get you hooked up to the diagnostics and so on." He pointed Rasputin to the back as he unstrapped himself.

"I can do that," Ms. Potts said quickly, slipping free of the straps.

"Go ahead," Stark nodded. "Logan, I need to have a word with you."

For a long moment they sat facing each other, saying nothing.

"Logan," Stark said, "I'd like to convince you to stay in my employ."

Logan sighed. "Flattered but regretful, Stark."

"Come on," Stark murmured with a small smile. "Everyone has a price. Besides, where will you go?"

"That's it," Logan snarled, his voice gutteral, his eyes narrowing. "You think everything is a commodity. I will not be bought and sold. I am not your property. The very idea that you think I am means I gotta leave what was a sweet setup once. Damn you, Stark, and no thanks."

"You don't have to make up your mind right away," Stark said quietly. "I did some thinking on this trip, Logan. About what you said. You're right, you know."

Logan watched him, his face still set and cold.

Stark drew in a deep breath and leaned back. "I've spent so many years creating the opinions that surrounded me that I don't know what to do with one that doesn't back down. The reflex is to get rid of it. By pushing away everything that is uncomfortable I have created a life that lost my interest." He gazed into Logan's eyes.

"I will never, ever," Logan said slowly, "understand rich people."

"It's the challenge," Stark said softly. "My company, my technology, my body, even my thoughts have been shaped by my will, a long time ago. Now," he said, looking down at himself, "now for the first time in years I find all that challenged, and I think something in me has forgotten how to fight. And you," he said, a small smile tugging at his face, "you remind me. In the days to come, I'm going to need that. It won't be easy for me, Logan, remembering what it was like when I made what I now enjoy."

"But if you aint livin yer dyin," Logan said. He was quiet a moment. "Looks like you lived through this one."

"The Fates spoke," Stark said, his voice barely audible. "Maybe now I understand why I'm here."

Logan looked deep into his eyes, wary, looking for something.

He found it.

Shrugged.

Logan leaned back, let out a breath, stretched his neck. "I'll take a vacation. Think it over. Out at the cabin."

"Thank you," Stark said. "And now that we're reasonably confident that Piotr Rasputin is not in league with the forces of evil, can I borrow some of the Tymaz Nine countermeasure?" He grinned.

Logan chuckled, reached into a pocket, and pulled out an battered Altoids tin. "Don't eat it all in one place," he said tossing it to Stark. "Damn I must be predictable."

"I'm afraid so," Stark said. "I knew you'd save my life, bring the one thing I forgot, and tangle with the Russian mob and former KGB to save the day."

Logan shrugged. "What the hell. Long as I get to toss you out of moving cars and knock in walls with my skull, I'm happy. Doesn't take much."

Stark smiled as he levered himself out of his seat. He walked over to the cabinet, moving like an old man. He pulled out a bottle of champagne, two fluted goblets, and a couple fine cigars. A few seconds later, Logan and Stark raised their glasses.

"To the simple things," Stark said.

Logan nodded. "To the simple things."

The toast slid down easy.

**April 20, 2002**

"De swamp, she be a pretty ting dis time a year," the man with long tousled hair mused. He sat on a decrepit rocking chair on a sagging porch, looking out over the bayou from a vantage a little too close to the water. He sighed, and reached for a conveniently placed bottle of whisky. Then he saluted the gathering dusk with the bottle. "To da pretty tings in Remy's life," he said, and he took a long pull from the bottle.

He thwokked the mostly empty bottle down on the porch again, feeling that pleasant tilt and whirl that kept him in the rocking chair and made the world a little harder to focus on. He smelled the night scents of the bayou, and the heavy tang of mosquito repellent, and the whisky. He looked down at his spotted undershirt, boxers, and bare feet.

"Remy LeBeau," he said in a slightly slurred voice, "you be a mess, mon ami." He wiggled his toes. Then he sighed and looked up at the first few stars that managed to outshine the dim glow of the sunset. Behind him the house was dark, quiet, and empty.

"Rogue, ma cherie, why you gotta go do dis ting?" he muttered to the swamp. "Why you gotta go back to dis school? I lef school when I was in da seventh grade. Look at me!" he said, flinging his arms wide. "I turn out jus fine. Where de whisky be." He reached down for the bottle and held it up for scrutiny.

"Now Lady Whisky be leavin me too. Dis verr bad." He sucked down the rest of the whiskey and casually lobbed the bottle out into the dimness, where it landed in something wet with a splat. He levered himself out of the chair and unsteadily stood.

"Chair creak, porch creak, bones creak," Remy said. "Dis place in bad shape." He shook his head. "Bad shape."

Then he felt a peculiar touch, like a caress on his scalp. He stopped abruptly, and his eyes narrowed. Half his intoxication slid from him noiselessly. He took a fluid, graceful step into the house. Then he prowled up the stairs, to the second floor. He headed down the hallway, easily sidestepping the boards that creaked. Moving into his guest bedroom, avoiding the hole in the ceiling and the floor, he moved to the window and stepped out onto the limb of the massive moss-draped tree overshadowing the house.

Graceful as a panther, he padded down the branch towards the trunk. Now standing in deep shadow, he looked at the front of the house. No visitors. Someone had touched his mind, though, he was sure of it and he trusted his instincts. Listening for all he was worth, he scanned the visible swamp from his hidden perch. He hopped to another branch to check the other side of the tree.

He gasped and froze, face to face with a massive cruel visage; Creed! In the tree! Remy scrabbled and dove back to the branch he had left as Creed's taloned hand whipped out, missing the lithe man by inches and tearing the air with an audible whoosh.

"Dis be bad," Remy muttered as he easily gathered his balance on the branch, facing Creed. The massive hunter scrabbled after him as he spun and dashed into the window.

Remy hopped through the window, then spun and snatched at something out of sight. He let out a whoop as he brought the shotgun to bear. He opened up with a double barrel blast that caught Creed right in the torso; the huge man was flung back by the magnum load slugs, blown out of the tree. Remy tossed the shotgun aside and dropped through the gaping hole in the floor.

He splashed down knee deep in water; the shifting house had lost its foundation on this side. Scrambling out of the water, he flung open the door and ducked into the hallway—

Some uncanny sense warned him, and he tumbled across the hall to the door on the other side. A shadowy figure at the end of the hall snapped off a few rounds from a pistol, the bullets slapping through the old wood of the house, too close for Remy's comfort.

He crossed the room and snatched up a loaded backpack, shrugging it on. He yanked on a wall panel and pulled out a waterproof bag with his passport in it. Stuffing the passport in one of the back pack's outer pockets, he ducked back into an adjoining room as the slim figure with the heavy pistol glanced after him. Remy abandoned stealth and ran down the short hallway, feet pounding dust from the curling and moldy carpet. He shouldered through the French doors and dove into the water, bullets drilling through the water around him. He couldn't help but grin as he swam deeper in the water.

His pursuer stopped firing and glanced back into the house. "Creed, get out here," she said, all business. "After him."

The big man limped out of the shadows, holding his gut. He nodded curtly, and dove into the dark water. The woman casually snapped out the clip on her pistol and slapped in a fresh one. She chambered a round, and waited. Behind her, another woman walked out of the fetid house's dimness.

"Did he get away, Rachel?" the woman with the pistol asked.

"No, Mystique," the one with flaring red hair replied. "He is nearby, and… he has a plan," she said, her eyes riveting on the ramshackle shed twenty feet away across the water.

A peculiar throaty whine trembled out of the shed, and a large engine coughed to life. Rachel's eyes widened, and she grabbed Mystique and toppled back into the house as the front door to the shack blew off and a sleek fanboat roared out over the water. Remy was at the helm with an assault rifle, wildly spraying the back porch with bullets as he guided the craft out towards more open waters. He was laughing wildly as the boat's ten foot diameter fan roared into high gear, shoving the shallow craft along the surface and sloughing in a turn that carried the boat out of sight.

Creed stood up in the shallow water, and looked back over his shoulder. Mystique stepped out of the house, and she looked at Rachel.

"I got him," Rachel said, her eyes pale and empty.

**xXx**

Remy cut the engine and let the boat drift. He opened the locker on the boat and pulled out a satellite bag phone. In no time at all he had it set up, locked on, and ready to use. He punched in a number from memory. After a series of clicks, there was a ring, under a faint sheen of static.

"Bonjour, mon ami," Remy said with his most charming smile. "Good to hear your voice. I hope you not terrible busy? I got a liddle problem here… I know, I know, I only call wit my problems, but dis is a good one. You _like_ dis one. Creed and Mystique looking for liddle ol me. Dey foun de house, now dey tracking me tru de swamp." He grinned broadly. "I knew I could count on you. Same air strip as last time, no? I'll meet you dere… Course I can steer clear of de Project until den. Oh, and one other ting," he said, his voice serious. "I tink dey got a psycher." He listened, then nodded. "See you in a few hours," he said.

He packed up the phone, then looked back the way he had come. They were already on his trail, he had no doubt of that. With a deep sigh, he started up the fan boat's engine again.

"Come, Monsieur Autopilot," he said to an apparatus made of a concrete block, a broom handle, and some clothesline. "Off you go north." The accelerator was pushed down, the boat kept going straight out over the water, and Remy donned his backpack. He leaped into the water. Surfacing, he watched the boat go. Should put enough fumes out for Creed to follow. He began to swim for the shore.

**xXx**

Rachel sat in the small fishing boat's prow, her eyes half closed. Creed steered the droning engine. In the back of the boat, Mystique was on her phone.

"It's unusual for you to request a status report in the middle of a mission," she said coolly.

"This is becoming an unusual situation," Fury's voice growled out of the phone. "I checked in Bryant's log, and it tuns out something like this has happened before. He refers to it as the 'Louisiana Incident' and it involves both LeBeau _and_ Logan. About fifteen years ago."

Mystique exchanged a look with Creed. "Creed and I were there."

"What happened?" Fury demanded.

"You can't look it up?" Mystique asked, a faint smile on her lips.

"Too high tech," he said. "The logs from the computer are so old that our technology can't get into them. Crack international code, sure, without breaking a sweat. Figuring out how to get into files made on operating systems that were cutting edge fifteen years ago? Now _that's_ a challenge. Give me the Cliff notes version."

"We lost them," Mystique said simply, and she snapped the phone shut. For a moment, she was lost in thought.

The phone vibrated, startling her from her reverie. She flipped it open. "This isn't going to become a habit is it?" she said into the phone.

"This just in," Fury replied. "Private jet just left Stark International's New York complex headed south. Bring in Logan too."

"What about Stark?" Mystique asked.

"Far as he knows it was an accident, very tragic," Fury said. "I'm calling in backup, too."

"No!" Mystique retorted. "We can handle, this, Fury."

"Got LeBeau in custody then?" he said, an edge to his voice. "Or did he give you the slip."

"We're tracking him," Mystique gritted out patiently.

"Not good enough. You catch him. You have until the extraction team arrives to prove me wrong."

For a moment neither of them spoke.

"Okay, Fury," Mystique said. "I'll be they're headed for the old air strip they used last time they escaped the Project." She quickly told him the coordinates; she had them memorized. "Have your troops meet us there, it's the only place they can land their choppers safely anyway."

"That didn't hurt, did it," Fury said. He hung up.

Mystique sat quietly seething for a moment. Between Rachel's psionics and Creed's hearing they were all up to speed.

"We know where he's goin," Creed said. "So let's just beat him there." Then he sniffed. "Hey, the boat changed direction. Headed north."

"But he's still going east," Mystique said. "Count on it. Get a move on. LeBeau has a big head start, and he knows the territory."

Creed got a move on.

**April 21, 2002**

Again, that cool touch on his scalp. "Damn psychers," Remy muttered. He climbed down out of the tree. "Forget it, forget it, no point," he sighed, looking up into the tree at the lovely confusing trail he'd left for Creed. "Creed not be de one following me now. It be dis other one, dis psycher. I jus outrun dem." And he got started.

After putting on the clothes in the backpack and holstering the .45, he had felt much better. The cards and collapsed staff stuck into his belt were also reassuring. He tucked the passport and the 5,000 in his pocket and tossed the pack. Time to travel light.

It was almost dawn when the exhausted Cajun found his way to the edge of the treeline, in sight of the small airstrip. Too small to have a name or be on a map, this airstrip had saved him more than once.

He strolled out of the treeline, not bothering to brush at the mud that covered his long coat, tough pants, and heavy shirt. The buckles on his boots were crusted with swamp. But he was smiling.

"Pepé, where you be?" he said, walking up onto the airstrip's runway.

"Remy?" came a voice from behind some fuel drums. "Remy, dat you?"

"Bringin you business, Pepé," Remy said with a smile, walking towards the voice.

"Good to see you, Remy!" said Pepé, putting down the shotgun and walking out in the open. He was a short pudgy man with only half his teeth, but his face was full of smile lines. "Mus be trouble on de way! Oderwise you never come to see old Pepé."

"Trouble, in spades," Remy said. "But I got a nice sleek jet coming to pick me up, be here in half hour or so. We okay for a landing?"

"You betcha," Pepé said. "You look pretty wiped out, mon ami."

Remy nodded. "I'd like to sit down for a minute fore dey get here," he said.

"Go on in, clean yourself up, or jus sit in de chair," Pepe said, gesturing to the low outbuilding with the windsock flying over it. "I keep an eye out for your friends."

"Much obliged, Pepé," Remy said. "You get paid for dis real soon."

"Yeah, yeah," Pepé said. Remy smiled and headed into the building, and Pepé watched the lightening sky.


	24. Home Safe

**xXx**

The plane finished its picture-perfect landing, and the side portal of the sleek jet opened to lower stairs. Pepé moved out to greet them. A short man with wild upswept hair strolled down the steps, glancing around and sniffing.

"Hey, you make it," Pepé said. "Remy, he be with you in a minute. Then you all go, ya?"  
"Yeah," the short man said, digging out a cigar. He tore the end off with his teeth. "Remy in there?"

"Sure is," Pepé said. Logan headed for the outbuilding, and Pepé raised the stun gun and lined it up on the back of his head.

Then Pepé's eyes snapped wide open, and he gibbered for a moment. His face began to shift and flow, then he collapsed on the runway, form oozing and twitching. The gun clattered to the pavement. Logan turned, looked from the collapsed figure to the woman standing over it.

"Nice work, darlin," he said.

"You should be more careful, Logan," she replied calmly as the gleaming psionic knife dissipated. "Creed is nearby as well."

"You got him, Bets. I'm gonna go get Remy. He's in there," Logan said, gesturing with his chin. He looked down at the garbled figure on the ground. "She gonna be okay?"

Braddock shrugged. "Yes. In about an hour. In the meantime she can try to muster the concentration to ponder the consequences of her evil deeds."

"That's what all a us are tryin ta muster the concentration to ponder," Logan grunted as he headed for the outbuilding.

Braddock turned and faced the swamp. "Creed," she said in a clear voice that carried over the bayou. "I am not tracking you by scent. The muck will do you no good hiding from me."

He said nothing as he rose from the swamp water, slathered in mud and weeds. He grinned, and slogged to the edge of the mere and out onto the runway. He shook like a dog, then settled, growling, into a combat stance.

"You Logan's girl now?" he rumbled. "Let's see what you got, frail." He barked a laugh and came in low, talons outstretched, leaping with unreal speed. She took a step to the side and pivoted out of the way, and he slashed through empty air. Landing in a crouch, he spun and took a stride towards her, lashing out. A pivot spun her away from his attack, and her fingertips cut into his elbow.

He faced her again. "That supposed to hurt?" he sneered.

She raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't matter. For the next few minutes, even with your healing factor, your left hand is useless."

He looked down at his arm in surprise. Aside from a wiggling finger, his hand had gone dead. He glared at her.

"It's on, now," he snarled. "No more Mister Nice Guy."

"Oh, _really_," she sighed. "Let's end this." Her eyes narrowed, and her fist was bathed in a peculiar purple light. With a subaudial hiss, a shard of seething, contained energy slid out of her fist, filling out a triangular wedge of light.

Creed darted in, slashing. She stepped out of the way and put the dagger through his face, then ducked gracefully as his lunge threw him to the ground, where he twitched fitfully. She sighed, and glanced over at the outbuilding. Logan was just reaching the door.

Logan nudged the door open with his foot. In the dim light of one bare bulb he saw Remy, tied to a chair, his eyes staring, twitching thoughtlessly. Next to Remy, a trim red-headed teenager held a gun to his head and watched him with narrow, angry green eyes. "One step closer," she said, "and your swamp rat friend paints a mural."

"Two down, kid," Logan shrugged. "Gonna be three. As fer shootin the swamp rat, you'd save me a hell of a lot of trouble."

Her eyes flared, and she reached into his mind. Her eyes snapped wide open and she recoiled, her head bumping into the boards of the wall behind her. Logan darted forward and snatched the gun while she was distracted. "Did I mention my head's a mess ta poke into?" he said with a grin.

She shouted. He smashed through the flimsy wall of the hut and sailed into the predawn bayou in a flat arc. He crashed into a tree and plopped down in the mud, his whole body tingling and aching.

The redhead stood by the hole in the wall, looking out into the swamp. She was smiling. Then she spun—

Just in time to catch the chair on her head and shoulders. It splintered in a most gratifying way, but Remy's heel whipped through the confusion to smash into her ribs. She flew back and crashed into the wall, but he was there, his next blow uncoiling at her. She ducked and landed a good punch to his ribs, but he was all sinew and bone, and the last thing she saw was his knee lashing out at her eye socket. The blow connected hard, knocking her head back against the wall again, and Remy stooped with his fist poised to hit her again if need be.

"Remy, you all right?" asked Braddock from the doorway. He looked up with his best rakish grin.

"I am now, chere. Good for Logan to bring you along. Thanks for waking me up," Remy said, looking down at the groaning and twitching girl on the floor.

Braddock said nothing. She knelt by the psycher. "I was in his cabin," she said quietly. "He invited me along because I could pilot the jet."

"Whatever you say, mon chere," Remy grinned knowingly.

She chuckled. Then she went rigid. "Hear that?" she asked.

Remy nodded grimly. "Choppers. We gotta move."

Braddock stood and jogged out towards the plane. Logan was just coming out of the swamp and heading for the plane as well.

"Shall we?" Braddock asked him, raising an eyebrow.

"Too late," he said, shaking his head. "They got missiles that could take us down easy, before we could get the distance. Time to go with plan b."

"Ah yes," she said, nodding. "How well I remember plan b."

"Dis is bad ting," Remy said. "I _hate_ plan b."

Just then an ugly helicopter roared into view, and it opened up with a salvo of missiles that crashed into the grounded jet in an incredible blast of painful sound. The jet exploded, sending them sailing back through the air. Two, then three, then four helicopters screamed into view and settled on the battered tarmac around the flaming jet. Doors rolled open and soldiers jumped out, fanning out to secure the landing area.

Braddock, Remy, and Logan were gone. One soldier found Mystique and helped her rise, another checked on Creed.

Mystique was blonde, cute, and in charge. "Who's your commanding officer?" she shouted over the chopper engines.

"Lieutenant Wentworth," the soldier shouted, pointing. Mystique strode over to him.

"Are you Special Agent Teak?" the lieutenant shouted.

"Yes," she nodded. "Let's go in there where we can talk," she yelled, gesturing at the outbuilding.

A minute later they were in the relative quiet of the building. "What was your briefing?" Agent Teak asked.

"Two terrorists," the lieutenant said. "Remy LeBeau and Logan Sendry."

"Add a third," Agent Teak said, her eyes slitted and vicious. "Elizabeth Braddock. Each of them is trained in a number of terrorist tactics, so treat them as extremely armed and extremely dangerous, even if you see no weapons. I don't think they've gone far, but for now leave the choppers running and establish a perimeter while I check with our special intelligence to see if they've gone far."

"Yes sir," he said, and he stepped out of the building and headed for his troops. Agent Teak put her palm on her forehead and winced; her mind was a riot of pain.

On the roof of the building, Rachel sat looking into the gathering dawn. She felt a stirring in her mind, then silent speech, clear and articulate in her thoughts.

_Rache_l, the voice said. _May I talk to you?_

Rachel felt the other mind, the other voice, not prying or imposing but simply there. She nodded her assent, if for no other reason than the novelty of the non-hostile contact.

_Twenty years ago we were in almost this exact same situation,_ the voice said_. We were a bunch of kids then, except Logan. I was here with them. I worked for the Project, can you believe that? I was a non combatant, along for the ride to be a spotter for Creed and Mystique. My heart goes out to you._

_Keep your heart,_ Rachel thought_. I have no patience for your pity_.

_Aren't you at all curious to know what happened?_ Braddock thought to her.

Rachel was silent, her silence answer enough.

_Back then the Project had a program for psionics, and I was a teenager in its courses. As the hunt went through the swamp, Remy and Logan snatched me and spirited me away from the soldiers. I knew for sure they were going to kill me. But they didn't. Even after I had tracked them halfway across Louisiana, they took me aside and talked to me. Remy told me what they had done to him, but I couldn't trust him. Then Logan told me the Project was evil, and he made me look into his head._

Silence.

_Well, you know what that's like_, Braddock continued. Rachel bit her lip.

_I couldn't go back to Extechops,_ Braddock thought. _I resigned, right to Bryant's face. Then they tried to hunt me, so I pulled every secret out of Bryant's head I could reach and threatened him with it._

Both women smiled at that.

_Freedom_, thought Braddock_, is possible, if you dare to reach for it._

_Yes, see how well that worked out?_ Rachel thought, bitter. _Twenty years later, here you are again._

_But it's not the same,_ Braddock disagreed. _I'm free. No unscrupulous men give me my marching orders. My mind is my own, my choices mine to make. It is worth the risk, worth the price, to be free. Just think it over._

The contact ended, and Rachel struggled with emotion.

Mystique popped her head up out of the building. "Rachel!" she said. "Are they still nearby?"

"Yes," Rachel managed, surprised to find a lump in her throat. "They're not far."

Just then one of the choppers changed the pitch of its engine, and it rose from the runway. Soldiers scattered as the minigun started spinning. The pilots abandoned the other three choppers just before a line of bullets ripped the gunships in half, spraying metal fragments across the sprinting soldiers. Soldiers fired at the helicopter, the bullets ringing off its steel hide ineffectually. Then the chopper veered to the west, corrected, and thudded to the west and the south.

"Damn," Mystique gritted out. "There they go." She pulled out her phone and punched in a number too secret to be in the autodialer. Some ordinance detonated in the ruin of a helicopter.

"Fury here," came the rough voice. "Doesn't sound like success."

"It isn't," Mystique said, her voice sour. "They hijacked a chopper and escaped. Send an extraction team for your soldier boys. Let us finish the job. They're headed to Mexico. The soldiers can't do this without creating an international incident."

"So you were on top of things when they arrived?" Fury said.

She gritted her teeth. "There's a certain way these things are done," she said evenly.

"Poorly. You're coming back to base, operation failed," he snapped. "Maybe Bryant was right about you. We'll see how Garrett and Wilson do." The line went dead. Mystique leaned back on the roof and looked at the rising sun.

At least he'd send an extraction team.

Down on the airfield, the soldiers struggled to put out the blaze with a few fire extinguishers they found in the office. It was almost comical. "At least we're in a swamp," Mystique mused.

A rattling thud, and Creed was on the roof. "I'm going after them," Creed said. "It's a trick. I can find them."

"We're being recalled to headquarters," Mystique noted.

Creed snarled, deep in his chest. "I'm going after them," he repeated, and he jumped off the roof, leaving only the aftertaste of his fury behind.

Mystique glanced at Rachel, and the two women slid off the roof to follow him.

As they landed, Rachel suddenly realized—

Creed bashed her head, and stars exploded in her sudden darkness as she sailed through the air and slammed to the ground, rolling with the force of the blow until she finished limp and motionless.

Mystique came up with a gun, but Creed was ready for that; he snatched it and startled her with a head bash to her face. She reeled, and he gripped her by the neck and easily hauled her off the ground.

"Don't follow me," he growled. He shook her once then tossed her over to where Rachel lay unmoving. He leaped into the swamp and was gone.

Mystique clutched her neck, gasping. Rachel lay unmoving, blood trickling from her nose and mouth. "Medic!" Mystique croaked, her voice damaged. She focused for a moment. "Medic!" she shouted, loud and clear.

A quick look reassured her that Rachel simply suffered from a concussion, nothing that wouldn't heal. She revived, groggy, as the medic trotted over.

"Look after her," Mystique said, standing and brushing herself off. She looked out into the bayou. "To hell with Louisiana anyway," she murmured.

Now it was all in the air. She wondered how it would come down.

**xXx**

Remy and Logan slogged through the muck. "I hate plan b," Remy muttered.

"I think you said that already," Logan said, "maybe even twice. Hell, maybe even thirty times. In fact, if you say it again I might have to slice your whiny hide open to see how many more you got in there."

"De mosquitoes make you grumpy," Remy said. "I understand dat. I let it go dis time. I know you just out of sorts and not your normal charming self cause we been slogging tru mud for de past two hours."

"Don't forget the heat. If it wasn't for you, I'd be at work eatin lunch right now. So don't give me lip. 'Sides. You called and asked for help. Well, there's nobody chasin you now, is there?"

"Whatever happened to plan a?" Remy asked forlornly. "Dat would be better dan going into a trance so de psychers can't see us, while our bodies be stuck up in trees, until de soldiers go away."

"Plan a was to let the Project have you. Though I can't imagine what they would want with a swamp rat who can't stop whining about his rescue."

"Hey, dey be working on super charmer soldiers next. De ladies love dem, dere friends can't say no to dem, and dey need an expert to teach dem de Art. Of Smooth." He grinned his most charming grin, the one he saved for special occasions.

"Gawd," Logan muttered. "I need a cigar."

Remy's laugh rang through the swamp.

**May 3, 2002**

He was unconscious when she found him. She fished him out of the deeper water and pulled him up on the mudbank, then crouched and waited, watching the burning house. A few minutes passed, and the flames were dying down. Xavier stirred.

"Braddock," he managed, his voice weak. "You saved me."

"I did," she agreed. "Don't you dare try to take control of my mind."

"Not sure I could," he managed. She saw he had sustained several burns, and he was in poor shape. "Not sure I can stay conscious."

They were quiet for a moment, him breathing and her waiting.

"Are you going to take me to a hospital?" he asked in a small voice.

"I haven't decided yet," she said. "Presumably you would rather be taken to a safehouse."

"I don't have many left," he said, slowly shaking his head, "and none in this part of the country."

She was quiet a moment. "It seems completely insane for me to do anything but kill you and walk away."

"I won't come after you ever again," he said, his voice weak. "I swear it. Please. Please don't let me die."

She let out a long breath, then stood and picked him up. He was uncomfortably light.

"Geraint," whispered Xavier, and Braddock was possessed of the knowledge of how to contact Geraint. Then Xavier slipped into unconsciousness.

She thought for a long moment. She couldn't just release Xavier into the world at large. If she turned him over to the Project, that would be heavier on her conscience than killing him. She weighed her options for few seconds that seemed to go on forever.

Then she had a plan.

**xXx**

"It's Ms. Braddock, sir," the assistant said, handing the cordless to Mr. Stark where he relaxed in the jacuzzi. "Your instructions were to always put her through."

"Thanks," Stark said, taking the phone. "Hey. Logan isn't back yet," he said into the mouthpiece.

"It's not about Logan," came the lovely voice on the other end. "I have a problem…" she said.

"I get a lot of that," Stark said, sinking a little lower in the water.

"I have a refugee from the Project who is badly hurt and may die. I can't vouch for him, but I can't let him go either. I don't know what to do," she said, a little lost. "I was hoping maybe you… He's burned, and I don't know if I can save his life," she said.

"You said you couldn't vouch for him," Stark sighed. "Tell me more."

There was a long silence. "He's a psycher, Stark. A powerful one."

Stark felt an almost irresistible urge to hang up the phone and let this one go away. He moved the phone away from his ear and his finger hovered over the disconnect button. But something inside him rebelled, rose up, forbade him. He had one moment to choose.

Then the moment was past. He put the phone back up to his ear. "Where are you?" he said.

"Thanks, Stark," she smiled, relief clear in her voice. "I owe you one."

No, Stark thought, you owe _Logan_ one.

"I'm transferring you to my assistant to work out the details," Stark said, and he proceeded to do so before he could change his mind. Then he sat in the jacuzzi and looked up at the ceiling and let his thoughts wander.

He wondered how long he had until the Project targeted _him._


	25. Luggage Checked

**May 5, 2002**

"How'd you sleep?" the trim man asked as he watched the gently glowing monitor over what looked like a tanning bed.

"Fine, thanks," replied the woman with dark, iridescent hair. She peered at the monitor. "Any change?"

"Yes, he's responding to the gel treatment," the man said. "He should pull through fine, with very minimal scarring." He looked at her. "_Then_ what is your plan, Ms. Braddock?"

"I don't know what to do when he is healed," she admitted.

"He could be a great asset to Stark International, if he's as powerful a psion as you say."

Braddock looked him in the eye. "Not if you want to keep control of your company, Mr. Stark." She sighed and shook her head. "You're sure the sedatives in his atmosphere will keep him unconscious until he is ready to be released? It might be a bit shocking to wake up in there. He probably has a great fear of becoming a test subject. Most of us do."

"He could really make me do whatever he wanted and I wouldn't be able to protect myself?" Stark asked, more softly than he intended to.

She looked him right in the eye and said nothing.

He shivered slightly.

**xXx**

Logan leaned against the wall, looking out the window, waiting. He glanced at the mirror at the end of the hall, and faced himself grinning. His hair swooped up away from his head with the same defiance it had shown as far back as he could remember. He smoothed it down and back. It popped up. He smoothed it down and back. It popped up.

Just then, the door opened and Logan turned. A slim, attractive Asian woman stepped out, a trim athletic executive right behind her.

"Logan!" the woman said. "Good to see you." She gave him a hug. "How did you know I was here?"

"I was just walkin down the hallway mindin my own business when bam, I walked right through yer scent hangin in the air not five minutes old. Had ta follow, see if it was you or if there was gonna be a problem." He grinned broadly, then looked at the man by her side. "Shoulda told me she was comin, Stark."

"Not my job," Stark said, half serious. "I've got some work to attend to. Would you mind giving Ms. Braddock a tour of the facility?"

"I'd be delighted to," Logan said, "if she thinks she wants to see all yer techno toys."

"Not _all _of them," Stark corrected quickly.

Logan shrugged. "Hell, _any_ of em."

Braddock laughed. "Lead the way."

They strolled down the hall away from Stark, turning onto an enclosed elevated walkway. "Yer in the medical wing," Logan said, his voice subdued, "and I'm sure you know that. Anything I should know about?"

"Is this part of the tour, Logan?" she asked, amusement in her eyes.

"Yeah, we grill _all_ the visitors this way, somethin about corporate espiosomthinerother Stark goes on and on about," Logan said, half grinning. "You okay?" he added softly.

"I'm fine, Logan," she nodded. "I'll tell you about it later."

He shrugged. "Okay. Later. So what do you want to see? The hydroponics lab," he began, ticking off the locations on his fingers, "the microcircuitry facility, research and development, which is otherwise known as the Wacky Wing—"

"The Wacky Wing?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"By me, anyway," he shrugged, not missing a beat. "Metallurgy development, chemical analysis, disease control center, and, a course, the lunchroom."

"Do you live on site?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am. I'm in the dorm wing."

"You didn't say anything about the dorm wing," she noted.

"That's on account a I gotta kill anybody who sees the secrets down there," he said solemnly.

"I'll take my chances. I'm curious to know what kind of home you've found in the midst of all this," she said, gesturing at the complex.

"Fair enough," he grinned, and they walked without further comment down through the administrative building and out onto the grounds.

"You can reach about anywhere through tunnels if you know what yer doin," he said. "Me, I like to get out now and then. Keep up my tan."

They moved through a lobby, took an elevator down underground, and walked down a long hallway lined with doors. Logan stopped in front of one of the doors. "Home sweet home," he said. He pressed the door's "open" panel and gestured for her to step in.

She did, looking around. This room was cooler than the hallway; he had left the conditioner running. The room was meticulously neat, if not dusted. She saw a large framed picture of a gazebo on the wall, and an easel with a pad of newsprint covered with silly scribbles. A battered, comfortable chair was firmly in place under a vent to the outside. Next to her was a table with two chairs, and there was a mini kitchen. A hall led back to the bedroom.

"Here we are," Logan said, his voice betraying a hint of nervousness. "This is my home away from home."

"I like the cabin better," she said absently, "but this has definitely been made into your space."

"Yep," he said. "Um. Hey, you hungry?" he asked brightening.

"Sure," she replied, a smile growing. "Are you on duty right now?"

"I'm special measures," Logan said, trotting over to the kitchenette. "I'm plan b, not plan a."

"Speaking of which?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Far as I know, Remy's fine. We split up on the Louisiana border." Logan shrugged. "I never heard somebody whine for so many consecutive hours before. When I had a kid—" he stopped abruptly, then shook his head. "Remy's about as mouthy as they come. At least Creed shuts up when it's time fer business." He opened the cabinet and pulled out a skillet, then he opened another cabinet and pulled out a can of beans; from the refrigerator, barbecue sauce and hot dogs, from the cupboard, molasses.

He paused, looking over at Braddock, his eyes unreadable. "Thanks fer comin with me, down to pull his fat outta the fire. After we blew up Xavier's house, I… I wondered if I'd see you again. You gave me that phone number, to call if I needed you. I was glad. I was glad I got an excuse to call. Cause, you know…" he trailed off, awkward, unsure of how to finish.

"It was my pleasure to answer your call," Braddock said. "It always will be." They regarded each other, and the moment glinted as it spun between them.

The door chimed. "Yeah," Logan barked.

A hulking man opened the door and filled its aperture. "Logan, have you—" he began, and he saw Braddock. "Oh, excuse me, I did not know that you had company."

"Elizabeth Braddock, meet Piotr Rasputin. Pete, this is Betsy." He grimaced as he fought with the can opener, trying to get into the can of beans. "Damn techno toys everywhere you look, can't turn around without trippin over one, but they can't make a decent can opener." He shook his head at the state of things.

"You are Logan's… friend?" Rasputin said, raising an eyebrow. He stepped into the room and the door closed behind him. At six and a half feet tall, he towered over the other two. His body was trim and massive at the same time, with no wasted space. His jaw was square, his eyes bright, and his hair dark and slicked back. He was handsome and athletic and confident.

She narrowed her eyes. "I am his friend," she said. Piotr nodded knowingly. He looked over at the counter where Logan had finally cranked the lid off the can of beans. Piotr groaned.

"You are not going to allow him to stew a toxic mess again are you?" he groaned. "Human beings should not place such poisons and trash in their bodies. I am an athlete, and you are a work of art. Such as we should not sully our bodies with his… his… what is the word… concoction."

"I take it he doesn't like beans n franks?" Braddock asked, raising an eyebrow in amusement. Logan set his jaw and started cutting up the hot dogs.

"Not only that," he growled, "he made fun a my mash. My _mash_, Betsy."

"You didn't like his mash?" she asked Rasputin, surprised.

"In Russia," he said loftily, "we have many uses for the noble potato. Each of them is insulted by his creation."

"Lissen ta that, willya," Logan grumbled. "Noble potato?"

"You _must_ love him," Rasputin said in good humor, "if you can stomach the garbage he makes."

Logan turned and looked him in the eye. "Ruskies otta know," he gritted out, "what a bad idea it is to fight a war on two fronts. You mess with my food, fine, but leave her outa this."

Rasputin looked at her. "Your accent is English," he said, "but you look Asian. Chinese, perhaps? Are you from Hong Kong?"

"I prefer my cloak of mystery," she said with a disarming smile.

His expression darkened. "In this facility there are many secrets. If we are to trust you here, you must not dissemble."

"Dissemble means to lie and deceive, ya meathead," Logan said, turning to face him. "She's just witholdin information. She's here on Stark's leave and her credibility is good on my say-so. Stand down, Rasputin. Yer dead last in the line a people who should bring up trust." For a long moment their eyes met.

Rasputin smiled at him fondly. "The little mongoose is jumpy today," he said.

"Perhaps you should go," Braddock noted, her voice quiet and impossible to fight with, her eyes bright. Rasputin glanced at her, noticed the threads of purple flaring in her irises.

"Enjoy your lunch," he said with a charming smile. "I will be seeing you," he said to Braddock.

He left. It was quiet for a long moment. The hot dogs started to sizzle.

"Cultural issues," Braddock said sagely.

"Yeah," Logan muttered, his voice tight.

She sighed. "Relax, Logan. He left. Let him go."

"I know," he said. "That damned Ruskie hits my buttons, though." He looked at her sideways. She smiled at him.

"Okay," he said, letting out a breath. "I made this rule. Never make franks n beans while angry. End up with too much pepper and molasses."

"That sounds like a good rule," she agreed.

**xXx**

_His eyes snapped open. His mind, fogged and hampered by the drugs and chemicals, reached out. Simple chemicals and drugs were not enough to stop him; over the years he had studied biofeedback to purge poisons from his system, to alert him when certain thresholds were crossed in his physiology. Someone had drugged him. And the horrible, horrible pain was still racing through his nerves; was this it? Had he been caught?_

_He sensed a sleepy mind nearby, slipped into it; so clumsy, the pain and drugs made him clumsy. A technician. Watching over his life signs. Some sort of healing gel bath; that must be why his limbs wouldn't move._

_If he could have, he would have nodded. Satisfactory. Ms. Braddock had indeed taken him to safety. He prepared to meditate to speed his healing. But first… he reached out with his mind once more._

**xXx**

Braddock and Logan headed for Stark's office. "I hope you had a good time," Logan said. "It sure was a surprise seein you today. If you hadn't showed up, I would have spent the day under the chemical lab learning all the subcorridors and access hatches. Stark thinks I know more about the ins and outs of this installation than any other single person, including himself. Hey," he shrugged, "if we get attacked I want ta make the most of my home field advantage." He fired up a cigar.

"Sounds like you've found your niche as special security," she said.

"Yeah, and when I'm done here I'm gonna check out some of his remote sites, help them guard against infiltration and stuff," he said. "Here we are." He opened the door and walked into the reception area for Stark's office. "Hey Nancy, seen Pepper or Stark?"

The receptionist looked up with poorly concealed distaste. "Mr. Stark is in his office. I'll let him know you're here," she said. She picked up the phone and turned away. "And no smoking."

"Hardly welcoming," Braddock noted. "Aren't you an employee here?"

"Stark picks em for their cold shoulders," Logan shrugged. He bit the glowing tip off the cigar and quickly swallowed it. "Save it for later," he said, tucking the cigar into his pocket. "Stark doesn't like getting bothered in his office by anybody who can't bypass this layer of security. Don't tell her that, though." He grinned.

"You may go on in," the receptionist said. Logan strolled through the door.

Stark sat at his desk, his eyes unfocused, a vague look of dismay on his face.

"You okay, boss?" Logan asked while Braddock narrowed her eyes and looked deeper.

"He says he's started nicely, but he's in a lot of pain," Stark said to Braddock. "I've never felt anything like that before."

"He can open your thoughts like you'd open a computer file," Braddock said. "And make changes."

Logan's eyes widened. "Xavier? You brought _Xavier_ here?" he snapped, looking back and forth from Braddock to Stark.

"You have a history with him?" Stark asked.

"Well, sir, you bet I do. I infiltrated his fancy house in the mountains and rescued Betsy and blew the place up. He was trapped underground fer days. I imagine he prolly holds a bit of a grudge." Logan scowled. "I sure as hell do. He was mind controllin Betsy here."

Stark looked at Braddock, who did not look back. "Forge," she said. "There is a man named Forge. He is the only one I know who can make technology that shields against psions."

"Not for long," Stark said, his eyes thoughtful. "I bet Xavier could teach me enough about how his mind works for me to devise a technological countermeasure." He was suddenly very quiet, his eyes distant, his mind working. Logan heaved a deep sigh.

"Vipers cuddled up to yer bosom, Stark," he muttered. "Between cue ball and tin man yer gonna make this place a regular snake pit."

"I suspect they feel the same way about you, my friend," Stark said, looking directly at Logan. He stood. "Well, Ms. Braddock, thank you for making sure we have things under control. When does your flight leave?"

"This evening," she said, looking at the floor.

"Yer leavin so soon?" Logan asked, raising his eyebrows. "Tell ya what, stick around for a while longer and we'll save you all kindsa time by just flyin in ta where you want to go with one of Stark's planes."

"Logan," Stark said with a pained expression, "I do wish you wouldn't take such liberties with my personal property. The last plane you borrowed didn't make it back."

"It's fine," she said, smiling at Logan and Stark. "I need to take the airplane from the airport. I think I'm being followed, and it's simple enough to keep track of Stark assets if you're connected and clever."

"Some of them, anyway," Stark amended.

"The planes," Logan nodded.

Stark gave him a look. Logan didn't notice.

"I was thinking about catching supper before I head to the airport," she said. "Would you gentlemen care to join me?"

"Sure," Logan said quickly. He glanced at Stark.

Stark smiled. "I'd love to, but I have some appointments and some other business to take care of. I need to get to bed by midnight, tomorrow is a busy day. Another time."

"Another time," she nodded.

"Be back," Logan said with a brief wave. "Mind if I take a car?"

Stark sighed. "Take a car."

**xXx**

"I think that's a dangerous place for you, Logan," Braddock said, idly stirring her ice water with her straw.

"Yep," Logan agreed. "You gonna tell me where you're going? Or who's after you? You need somebody to watch yer six." He clamped his jaw shut.

She looked into his eyes, and she saw what he was asking. What he would not ask. She looked down at her drink. "I just don't think you see the dangers at Stark International." She shifted, her evasion uncomfortable.

He sat back, stretching his legs out under the table. He glanced around, oblivious to the afternoon heat of the sidewalk café. The heat was enough to drive most of the patrons inside, so they had this corner of the café all to themselves. "I know about some of the danger," he said, almost to himself. "I almost left Stark not long ago. He convinced me to stay."

"How?" she asked. "If I'm not prying."

He chuckled. "I can't begin to go into why that's funny. He needs me, Bets."

"For security?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not from companies and goons, but… the Project made a grab at his stuff and they made a regular mess of the place. Still, I'm not talking about that kind of security." His eyes wandered the street. "You grew up rich, right?" he said.

"Yes," she affirmed warily.

He shook his head. "I will never, _ever_ understand rich people. Maybe you will. Stark, he got everything he wanted. Spoiled him rotten. Now he is coming under fire from lotsa places at once, and he… he needs… me, I guess," Logan shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't know how to explain it." He looked at her for a quiet moment. "I guess it feels good to be needed."

"Not only did I grow up rich, I grew up English," she said, a hint of amusement under her voice. Logan glanced at her sideways. "Let's say I know of a way to understand Stark. In the modern age, he's the Lord of the Manor. He protects his territory while ruling over his charges with a firm but benevolent hand." He sipped her drink.

Logan mulled that over for a moment. "So… that makes me his knight in shining armor?" he grinned.

"Sure," Braddock said, her eyes meeting his. "You wear yours on the inside."

"Cut it out," Logan chuckled. "Yer gonna make me blush. Lords of the manor," he mused. "Do they ever suit up for battle?"

"All the time," she said. "They led their troops to the battlefields. They had some of the most elaborate armor of all."

"Damn straight," Logan muttered under his breath. "Hey, when do you need to get to the airport?"

"I can walk from here," she said. "I don't have any luggage."

There was quiet for a moment.

"I hate turnin loose of you this quick," Logan said.

"I'll be back," she promised, her bright eyes fixed on him. "Count on it."


	26. In Shining Armor

**xXx**

Stark faced the glowing monitor, and adjusted a few settings on the keyboard. The bald man's eyes fluttered once, then opened.

"You can't talk," Stark said. "You can hear me. Just speak into my mind. I want to make a deal with you, Xavier."

_What kind of deal?_

"There are only a handful of people who can make gear that protects against and detects psionics, right?"

_Correct._

"I want to be one of them."

There was a long moment of silence.

_What do you offer me in return?_

"I have resources," Stark said. "What do you want? Monetary recompense?"

For a moment Stark felt Xavier skim through his mind, a quick tour.

_No, not money,_ came the thought, quivering with excitement. _You can make me an exosuit. You can make me walk again._

"As a matter of fact, I can," Stark said.

They both smiled.

**xXx**

Logan walked into the lounge, opened the refrigerator, and fished out a can of beer. He shut the fridge, and glanced over to the corner where Rasputin hunched over a pinball machine, thwacking the buttons on the side with his big meaty fingers.

Curious in spite of himself, Logan strolled over and glanced at the high score. His eyebrows went up.

"Pete, how long you been bashin this thing?" he asked.

"I do not know," the big man replied.

"Well, ya got thirty continues racked up," Logan noted. "Keep this up and by the time you leave it a pack of chimpanzees could play for two days without going through all yer continues."

"Yes," the huge man said, some heat in his voice. "What is the _point?_" He snapped the ball into the multiball slot, and three pinballs were released at once. Piotr stood to his full towering height and looked down at Logan, ignoring the chaos on the sloped pinball table as the silver metal balls caromed around from bumper to bumper, then slid between the inactive paddles to disappear.

Logan looked back briefly, then popped the tab on his beer and shook his head.

"Good luck," he said, and he returned to his room.

No sooner had he settled into his comfortable chair and fired up a cigar, beer on the table at his side, then a heavy knock hit his door.

"Come in," he said.

Piotr ducked through the opened door and closed it behind him. He turned to look at Logan. "Do you have a minute or two?" he asked.

"I'm off duty," Logan said. "Whatcha need?"

Piotr sank into a chair. "Logan," he said, "I am alone and out of place here. It is taking its toll on me. I am a farmer. I was born to a family of farmers and it is all I ever wanted to do."

"That so."

"Yes."

"So why'dja quit?"

Piotr heaved a deep sigh. "When I was an early teen I fell from a tree and broke my leg. It was a nasty break. The doctor put a pin, a steel pin in the bone to hold it together. When I returned after the cast was off, they discovered with their x-ray machine that my entire bone had become steel like the pin."

He shrugged. "This came to the government's attention. The KGB took me from my family, under the guise of university recruiters. They subjected me to torture and reward in alternating doses, so I did my best to tap this secret potential. I could turn my skeleton to steel, then my nerves, finally all my flesh and my skin and hair. Once they had unlocked this potential within me they gave me to that dog, Bukharin, to learn to be a bodyguard."

"Far cry from farmin." Logan puffed on his cigar.

"Yes, just so. One thing led to another and here I am, in the heartland of my country's enemy, serving one of the capitalists my people have always hated. I look around me and see the wealth and splendor, and my heart sinks within my breast as I think of those in my home community who are starving tonight." He gently touched one of the chairs. "The furnishings of my apartment here would support my family for two years if sold in a proper market." He shook his head. "Why am I here instead of with my people? To die at the hands of the thugs who were once KGB has more honor than to hide in the wealth of the United States. Am I a cultural liaison? I have done no such work, and I am not qualified to do so outside of Russia. I should live or die in my home country."

"Martyrs are only useful to causes and megalomaniacs," Logan said. "You're more useful to Stark alive."

"Why should I be useful to Stark?" Piotr said, raising his chin in defiance. "He has brought me only grief."

"Stark's crazy," Logan said. "Still, without him yer community would be irradiated six ways from Sunday and you'd be dead from Tymaz Nine. Don't forget that."

"A good deed does not make a man responsible or a good leader," Piotr said.

"I wouldn't say Stark was responsible and a good leader, necessarily," Logan sighed. "He is, after all, nuts."

"Then he should not be rich," Piotr said softly.

Logan shook his head. "The two go hand in hand, Pete. Wealth and insanity."

"That is why capitalism is wrong," Piotr said, his eyes shining with belief.

There was a long moment of quiet, the only motion in the room the ticking of the clock's second hand and the wafting of the cigar's smoke up into the vent.

"You know yer smack dab in the middle of a den of capitalists, right?" Logan said.

"I have felt it deeply," Piotr replied fervently.

"If you don't tell Stark there's a better way, who do you think will?"

Light dawned behind Piotr's eyes.

"Thank you, my comrade," Piotr said, rising. "I have much to do."

Logan's grin showed all his teeth as Piotr ducked out.

**May 6, 2002**

Stark was deep in thought as he strolled down the hall towards his office, so he didn't see Piotr until the last moment. He glanced up. "May I help you this morning?"

"Yes, I was wondering if we could speak together for a few minutes."

"Sure," Stark said, half listening.

"I've been talking to the cleaning staff," Piotr began. "One of them works two jobs. One is also on welfare in addition to working here. He is a single parent with three children to feed. This salary and health plan do not suffice for his family. Another of your employees cannot have a family because he knows he cannot afford children."

Stark gave him full attention. "So?"

Piotr blinked. "So," he said, a little rattled, "these people work in the midst of a tremendous display of wealth and they cannot feed their families. Those who work should have their basic needs met."

Stark narrowed his eyes. "Those who work should have needs that match their salaries, Rasputin. If they can't afford children they shouldn't have any." He looked at Piotr for a long moment, his mind following its own line of thought. "Whether you like it or not, Communism is a failure. There will always be the haves and the have nots." He smiled a brilliant smile. "At least I haven't replaced their jobs with robots. Is there anything further? I have business to attend to."

"Communism cannot be dismissed so easily," Piotr said, stung. "A handful of corrupt men cannot kill a dream. It is the task of each human being on this earth to try to bring greater equality to the oppressed."

"Very heroic," Stark said, nodding. "If they don't like their jobs they should get better education, learn better skills, and build some good habits. If they aren't clever enough to find or make a way out of their miserable lives, then that becomes the government or church community's task to help them. This is a _corporation_. Not a trade school. Not a community college. Not a church. Not a non-governmental organization for relief efforts. I don't want a company full of dead wood I can't fire because their families would suffer. I make _technology_. In my way, I am making the world better. Even the communists had division of labor figured out. Anything else?"

Piotr stood speechless.

"Good." Stark patted him on the shoulder. "Why don't you work with Potts and get my next Russia trip set up." Stark walked around him and continued on.

Piotr stood alone in the corridor.

"Nothing else, sir," Piotr breathed.

**xXx**

_I am not a popular man. Would it be possible to enhance the body suit? Give it additional… protection?_

Stark rubbed his jaw. "I agreed to help you walk, not to make you a tank. We don't trust each other enough for that. Let's stick to a simple exosuit that allows you to walk and call it good. I'm working on a way to build in a kind of psychic battery, so your mental powers would charge the suit. That way you won't have to worry about batteries or power units. Trust me, that's a good thing."

_Would that dampen my abilities?_

"Maybe," Stark conceded. "I can't be sure until we test it. Your healing is looking good, coming along well. Another day or two and we should be able to get you out of there to run at least preliminary tests. If I can figure out how to create a receptacle for the energies of your mind, that should give me a head start on developing countermeasures. I've heard a disturbing rumor that the Project has its own psycher now."

_She is very skilled in infiltration._

"My countermeasures have had some success with intruders before," Stark said with a shrug. "I'm all for the 'live and let live' philosophy as long as I can protect my assets should there be a breach by the other party."

_It is clear that we are each uncomfortable with furthering the aims of the other_, Xavier thought. _Collaboration is for the best, however. Think of what we stand to gain._

"I am," Stark said, "believe me, I am. But why do you even need to deal with me? Can't you just," Stark said, gesturing at his head, "take what you need?"

_I can take the ideas, but not the expertise to implement them. I do not have sufficient technical skill to use your ideas without your assistance._

"Good," Stark said to himself, nodding. "That's good."

**xXx**

Logan headed down the hall towards his room, stretching and yawning like a cat. He walked past Piotr's room and saw the door open. He poked his head in.

Piotr was stuffing his clothes in a suitcase.

"Goin somewhere?" Logan drawled.

Rasputin turned to face him, radiating anger. "I have fought against people just like Stark my whole life," he said. "I have fought his ideals. What went wrong with the Soviet system is that it fell into the hands of the strong who used it to exploit the weak. No matter which side of the cold war you are on, it is wrong for the strong to grind down the weak and take from them their dignity and resources. I cannot support Stark. I have had my fill of working for corrupt men, for whatever reason."

"Now hang on," Logan said. "I understand not wantin to work fer Stark. But maybe it aint so much a matter of you working for him as it is a matter of you working for the rest of the world by helping Stark become what he could be."

"You talk in riddles, little man, and I have no patience!" Piotr snapped.

"Easy, big fella. The world is only gonna change if men who are half-blind, with iron ideals, _make_ it change. Gotta be half-blind so you can't tell it's impossible, so you keep goin when there's no point, and you gotta have iron solid ideals so you remember why yer doin it. Sane people, like Pepper, they give up on nutballs like Stark. Stark needs people like you an me to refuse to be hurt, to hang in there with his bizarre wrongness until he trusts us and sees that we got a point. Needs role models."

"You think _we_ are Stark's role models?" Piotr said incredulously.

"Not fer the day ta day," Logan shrugged. "But he don't know how to sacrifice, how to believe in somethin bigger than himself." He hesitated. "Bein a good man aint somethin you can take off and put on. It's gotta be who you are or it's worthless. You just can't walk away when it aint easy anymore."

"I don't understand where you are going with this," Rasputin said. Logan sighed.

"Fergit about all that. Okay. Stark has some good stuff in him, I believe that. It's just really deep. Only time and patience and effort can bring it to the surface. I think he needs people to show him how to believe in something bigger than himself. You can say he's an evil man, and maybe he is. But he aint so much the capitalist pig as he is some kinda feudal lord, takin care of his own, each accordin to their station." He shook his head. "Philosophies are like neckties. Hang onto one long enough it'll come back in style. They come and go. A system is no better or worse than the people in it."  
"You really believe that?" Piotr said, his voice unreadable.

"I trust some people who do," Logan said. "Me, I can't figure that stuff out. Makes my head hurt, an it doesn't make a damn bit a difference in the long run. I gotta do what's in front of me to do. Right now, that's helpin Stark find his way to bein who he oughtta be."

"If Stark was a feudal lord, would we be his knights?" Piotr asked.

"In shinin armor," Logan said, amused.

"Would he then be like King Arthur?" Piotr pressed.

Logan shook his head. "There are no more kings, Pete. Stark doesn't have anybody or anything to believe in outside himself." Logan looked sideways at Piotr. "Maybe that's why he needs us."

Piotr sat lost in thought, packing forgotten.

**May 7, 2002**

Stark gently touched the faceplate of the suit of armor that looked down to him from where it brooded in its nest of cables and wires. A shiver ran up his damaged spine; for a moment he relived the sensation of flying through the air, the unbearable crash against the column at Creed's hands, the leering bloody face, the frozen armor. He shook his head, turned from the armor.

He perched on his work bench, surrounded by tools and components that, together, would equal the sum assets of the public school system in New York. He had studied the sensors that read every possible measurable emission from Xavier, during times of mental activity and during times of rest. He had studied them for the similarities, for the differences.

For one, Xavier was using biofeedback meditation techniques. That masked much of the psionic activity. Adding insult to injury, his psionic contact didn't burn a fraction of his power; it was effortless, like whispering would be for a normal person. Stark rubbed his mouth, sitting back. So. To get a real reading on Xavier's power, Xavier would have to use it, and use a lot of it. That should reveal any physiological spike that could point to how to harness psionics physically.

The comm chimed. Stark looked at it, checked the code. Pepper. He opened the channel.

"Mr. Stark," she said. "Fisk has sent a representative to talk to you. I think he might want to negotiate over the South American issues."

"Colombia's decision to freeze his assets until they determine whether or not he's a threat to national security had nothing to do with me," Stark said with a smile. "Serves him right for what happened in Brazil. Besides, didn't you check my calendar? I'm working on a project in the lab today."

"Yes, sir, I noted that," she said carefully. "But to make that happen you crossed out eight other appointments. Yesterday."

"Anybody on that list offer me something I don't have that I want?" Stark asked.

She scanned the list, her mouth tight. "Not at first glance, sir. Except field reports."

"It can wait," Stark said, waving his hand. "Give them an extra vacation day and put them up onsite. I'll get around to it."

"It's bad for morale, sir," Pepper said diplomatically.

"Thanks Pepper, you're a doll," Stark said as he cut the connection. He picked up the knee articulator, deep in thought. Then he punched in the code for Xavier.

"Xavier, this is Stark. In order to further my research, I need you to stretch yourself. Do something that requires a great deal of effort. Can you manage something like that?"

_I'll do my best,_ Xavier thought, and Stark watched his vitals. Even here, halfway across the base, under chemical influence, while meditating, not a ripple of effort to make contact. He frowned.

Then he saw stress in Xavier's life signs. Stark kept an eye on the dozens of output feeds from the instrumentation monitoring Xavier. Skin temperature, pore dilation, circulation speed, pressure points, chi meridians, and every conceivable emission from the physical brain and from the physical systems were represented.

Stark smiled to himself. "I think we're onto something," he murmured.

**xXx**

Xavier lay on the bed, unmoving, relishing the feel of breathing the room's atmosphere instead of air from a tank through a hose. The gel treatment had been effective, if unpleasant. Patches of angry red, pink, and purple were still visible on his skin, but he was out of danger and he _had_ skin.

The door opened, and he smiled to himself. "Hello, Logan," Xavier said in an even tone.

"I can't believe Betsy brought you here," the short man growled.

Xavier was quiet for a moment. "But she did."

"I'm just as flabbergasted that Stark is dealing with you," the growl continued.

"But he is," Xavier said.

"I'm standin here thinkin about killin you," Logan explained, deep and quiet and serious.

Xavier turned his head and looked at Logan. "I could drop you where you stand."

"Don't I know it," Logan muttered. He shook his head. "I got lucky, in yer basement. You didn't go to all the extra effort of cuttin through the static ta see what's goin on in my brain pan. Yer mistake, and you paid for it. But if you do anything to hurt Stark for healin you up, I'm gonna hafta repossess that life savin he did. Just so we're clear."

"What a droll way to put it."

Logan took the three steps towards Xavier, and looked him in the eye. "I got six more droll points I'm gonna put to ya if we have to get back to this conversation, got it?"

"I understand," Xavier said with a small smile.

"You aint even a little bit afraid," Logan observed. He nodded. "Okay. We'll see how it goes from here then."

The door opened, and Stark walked in. "Oh," he said, surprised to see Logan. "Am I interrupting anything?"

"Just a little heart to heart," Logan said. "We were just finished."

Logan left, and Stark watched him go. He turned to Xavier. "Is everything alright?"

Xavier smiled. "Everything's fine. He was encouraging me to look out for your best interests. Fascinating security you have here."

Stark shrugged. "He works better with minimal supervision. So far so good. Now, with my equipment I detected a few different possibilities for registering your psionic emissions, and if that is the case, if I'm on the right track here I can refine instrumentation to pick psionic energy up at increased sensitivity. Once we can measure it I can begin to put together a method to collect and convert it."

"Always a pleasure," Xavier said with a smile, "working with a scientific mind."


	27. Perspective

**May 19, 2002**

Logan squatted on the roof of the building, watching the sun come up. He sighed. It had been two weeks since Braddock left. He was thinking of her as he watched the dawn. Two weeks, and Xavier was still at the complex. Logan wondered if Stark's business was running well without guidance from its leader or whether it was fraying at the edges. He had no way of finding out, and he didn't want to know enough to ask.

There. He saw what he had been waiting for. A painfully thin man was slowly walking along the perimeter fence. Xavier. Walking. From here Logan caught the glint of metal from the frames that supported his legs. He could not see the thin plate that went up Xavier's back to connect to his spine higher up, but he had seen it yesterday at Stark's in-house demonstration of the first psionically powered exosuit. Flamin magnificent.

Logan dropped two stories to the ground, landing effortlessly. He walked into the building and headed for Stark's lab. He got to the first layer of security and buzzed in using his code.

A few seconds later: "Yes?"

"We need to talk, Stark. Really."

After a few seconds: "I'll be out."

"Maybe I should come in," Logan said.

The door clicked, and Logan opened it.

After working through the rest of the security, he found himself in Stark's personal lab. He had only been in here two or three times. He looked at Stark, who was dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans.

"Yer workin on plans to make a whole exosuit, complete with weapons and armor," Logan stated as a matter of fact, folding his arms across his chest.

Stark glanced down at the complex formulae and sketchy micro diagrams on the paper in front of him and on the screen of his computer. "What makes you think that?" he asked casually.

Logan shook his head. "You wanna make Xavier totter around on braces, okay, fine. But if you give him anything else, I'm gone."

"This is an ultimatum?" Stark said, surprised.

"Damn straight," Logan nodded. "I can't work to protect someone who arms my enemies. You wanted to make him walk, fine, that's got a nice charity ring to it even though I know better. But how can you begin to explain arming that psychopath?"

"I'm sure he feels the same way about you," Stark observed, leaning back in his chair.

"He's wrong," Logan said simply. "I'm one of the good guys. I don't know what he's told you, but he's one of the bad guys. He lured Betsy to his facility under the guise of psionic research and put her through hell and cosmetic surgery to make her what she is today. He forced her to try to break my mind as a test for her technique. All he has to do to have insiders in every industry and organization in the U.S. and beyond is _think about it_. You arm him with more than he already has and you cross my line."

"You have a lot of nerve, Logan," Stark said softly. "How's your supply of Tymaz Nine countermeasure holding up?"

There was a sharp, tense silence between them.

"I'm not tellin you what to do," Logan said, his voice deeply quiet and subdued. "I'm just tellin you if you do this I'm leavin. That's a cheap card for you to play."

Stark watched him steadily.

"You know, Stark," Logan said, "I've stuck up for you. I've said that whatever happens, whatever you do that's ugly, there's a good man in you who just needs a chance to come out. I believe that, even though I know I'm not the best judge of character. Why are you helping Xavier? Is it for money? Or mind control? Or are you just after secrets?" Logan stopped, not wanting to say more, not having more to say.

"I'm doing it," Stark purred, "because I can."

"Gotta be somethin bigger than yerself that you serve, Stark," Logan said, slowly shaking his head, "or you'll end up alone and with nothin that's worth it to ya."

"You sure?" Stark's eyes were hostile.

Logan met his eyes. "I've been there," he said softly. He turned and opened the door, walking out and leaving Stark with his designs, his formulae, and a haunting echo of the look of pain in Logan's eyes.

**xXx**

A shadow fell over Xavier, and he looked up. "Ah, Ms. Potts," he said with a warm smile. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Mr. Xavier," she said. "How are the braces working out?"

He sighed deeply. "Frankly, they take a lot out of me. I'm exhausted. I have a bit of a headache. This uses muscles I haven't used in a long, long time, and the method of powering the braces is still quite crude."

She sat beside him. "You walked almost a quarter mile. That's a lot for the first unassisted trip."

"Indeed?" he said. "That's an accomplishment. To be able to do that on the second day."

"Yes," she nodded. "I saw you sitting on the bench and I thought I'd make sure you were alright."

"I'm fine," he smiled, "even if my dream isn't all I thought it was. Fantasy seldom is, I suppose."

She shot him a wry look. "Did you expect to be playing football as of today?" she asked.

"No," he sighed, "I suppose not." He was quiet for a moment. "Give my regards to Stark, will you?" he said.

"You're leaving?" she blinked, surprised.

"Yes."

At the gate, the guard with the blank stare pushed the button to remove the barrier. A sleek black car pulled in. At the wheel was a man with steely gray hair and a worried look.

"Why are you leaving so soon?" she asked.

"Logan's presence complicates things. I'll stay in touch with Stark. When Logan is gone we'll resume," he said. "I have enough for now, and so does Stark. He needs some time before we deal with each other again."

"But," she managed.

He smiled, and she stood. "Thank you, Xavier," she said automatically. "I'll take Stark your message."

"Good girl," he murmured, and he hauled himself to his feet and stiffly walked towards where Geraint was parked, waiting for him."

Logan crouched on the roof, watched him go, and did nothing.

**xXx**

"Take the rest of the day off, you look tired," Stark said to Potts, his face grim. "At least he didn't leave without saying goodbye."

"I'm sorry," she said meekly, her left eye wincing with the beginning of a headache.

"Not your fault," he shrugged. "So he left because of Logan."

"He seems to think you'll get rid of Logan before long."

"Doesn't take a genius," Stark said.

"I think Logan's good for you," she retorted.

"Did I ask?" Stark snapped.

She stood up straight, a fire in her eyes. "No, sir, you did not. You never do." She turned and left his office.

Stark glanced down at his shirt to see if he'd pinned a 'cheap shot' target to himself today. No, just the 'SI' logo. He sighed. "Why is everybody so touchy all the time?" he muttered.

**xXx**

Piotr put his tray down and sat opposite Logan, who looked at him. "What?" Logan demanded.

"I'm sorry, this seat did not appear to be taken," Piotr said.

"I'm eating," Logan snapped, and he took a ferocious bite out of his helpless hamburger.

"Why are you grumpy? I hear you didn't like Xavier, and he is gone," Piotr said. His plate was heaped with mashed potatoes, vegetables, and a small piece of meat. Logan had a thick hamburger, fries, and a coke.

"Not polite to talk with yer mouth full," Logan said, and he stuffed the rest of the hamburger in his mouth.

"I talked with this Xavier fellow," Piotr continued. "He seemed very cordial and pleasant and not at all uncouth."

Logan swallowed his food. "Pete, nobody uses the word 'uncouth' in America."

"I see," Piotr said, bobbing his head a bit in apology. "Potts and I have finished putting together Stark's Russia trips. Now, if he can be persuaded to go without canceling them because he's not in the mood, our work will pay off." He put a petite forkful of potatoes in his mouth and began to chew.

Logan watched him askance. "Pete, I might be… out of town for a while."

"What?" Piotr said, his eyes growing large. "You are not yet scheduled for a vacation."

"More out of town than that," Logan muttered. He shook his head. "I don't know about Stark."

"It is not sporting to talk me into staying then to go," Piotr said sternly. "What about your pretty speeches about Stark being a good man underneath who only needs guidance?"

"Never been accused a makin 'pretty speeches' before," Logan reflected. "I've been foolin myself. I'm stickin around because of the Tymaz Nine countermeasure Stark gives me. I'll be without, but…" he shrugged. "I can't live on anybody's dole."

"What is 'dole'?" Piotr asked.

"Welfare," Logan said.

"You do not have Tymaz Nine, do you?" Piotr said. "Why do you need a supply?"

"I got a friend," Logan said, and his eyes told Piotr to drop it.

"Seems the day is full of surprises," Piotr murmured, returning his attention to his food. After a moment, he looked meaningfully at Logan. "If I were in your position," he said, "I would get the _cure_ for Tymaz Nine and _then_ leave Stark."

They looked at each other for a long moment.

"You would, huh."

Piotr nodded once.

Logan barked a short laugh. "Pete, yer a piece a work," he said, shaking his head.

"So are you, my friend," Piotr said. "Ideals give life meaning and direction, but they serve and are served by pragmatism."

"And perspective," Logan muttered.

They finished their meal in silence.

4


	28. The Art of Shaping

He caught glimpses of himself as he ghosted down the shattered pave of bone and brick. His connection with the spirits of this place was strong, and as they traveled around him, curiosity drawing them to their visitor, their senses got a little tangled with his.

He stopped before a heavy, ancient statue that had once been a warrior; it was carved in the likeness of a race that had been extinct for a thousand years.

"You push your boundaries, mortal," the statue ground out using the shattered bones that lay in drifts and piles around it in the dimness as sounding boards. Its language was one designed to describe pain, an ancient language from before the short lives of men measured time on the planet.

"My quest is urgent," the thin man replied in the same tongue, not yet raising his mystic defenses. "I am the defender of Prime. There have been stirrings there, tremendously powerful stirrings, as though some entity were trying to break through the veils that protect that world. Yet I have been unable to identify my enemy. I have searched long," he said, raising his hands in supplication. "I have bled much. Yet I cannot find him. His minions draw veils of shadows over themselves, and as yet I do not know where to look. You see much. Can you add insight?"

The Guardian shifted, rubbing its vast eye. "I see much, and feel more," it rumbled. "There has been a disturbance. There is a force that surrounds your world and seeks to squeeze it. I can tell you no more. Your fight is not my fight."

"When one dimension falls, those who defend it suffer," the thin man said. "This force; do you think it would be content to stop once my realm has fallen?"

The Guardian grunted. "More so if I do not attract its attention, your time runs thin and danger grows all around you, mortal."

"I will be gone in a moment," the thin man said, raising his hand. "First…" His face creased in pain. "I am desperate to know, Guardian. The Flames of Faltine are at my disposal, and the Precepts of Crymorn obey my call. I may not be in my home dimension," he added, squaring off, "but I will have the information I seek if I must tear it from your shattered form." Dark fires began to flicker along his outline.

"You play a dangerous game, wizard," rumbled the stone beneath the thin man; the bones fell to powder with the force of it, the wizard's nose began to bleed.

"What force," the thin man said, implacable. "You have seen it."

A long moment of silence seemed to reel off its own dimension. Then the statue grunted again, allowing the energies to relax their grip on the insolent mortal.

"I will tell you a sign, and you will leave now," the Guardian said.

The thin man nodded.

"That which seeks your world," rumbled the vast statue, "dwells in darkness."

The thin man was not one to push his luck. "My thanks, Ancient One," he murmured, and then he slid through the ground as though he was nothing but a ghost himself.

An instant later he was free of that dimension and once again in the ether.

"A solid lead, as wizardry goes," he murmured to himself. "The dark presence grows stronger. I must search more actively if I am to find out more…" He began to retrace his path back to his solid, inert body that was so far away from the when, where, and what of his thoughts that there was no measure.

**xXx**

The violin was wailing uncertainly to itself as Illyana kissed the little pink pill and then popped it in her mouth. "One a day," she whispered to herself. Then she glanced over at her roommate.

"What's that you're playing?" she asked, a wince in her voice.

"Sounds like nothing to me," the tall blond sighed. "Sounds like an animal being tortured, slowly, for information it doesn't have."

"Very poetic," Illyana said, grinning. "Poor thing. I'll call the ASPCA immediately."

"What's that pill you take every day?" the blond asked, nodding towards the small bottle Illyana quickly moved out of sight. "Does Strange know about it?"

"Who can tell what Strange knows?" Illyana said. "I prefer to keep my enigmatic aura of mystery, if you please."

"Suit yourself," the blond said, shrugging. She raised the violin to her shoulder, and attempted a firm steady stroke across the strings that instead sounded a little drunken. She set her jaw, refusing to be discouraged in the face of complete ignorance.

Illyana walked to the window seat and looked out at the rain-swept street below. "Awful dark for ten in the morning," she murmured to herself. The bright lights inside the apartment threw her reflection into view on the glass. For a moment she looked at her petite form, her slim waist and womanly shapes, her sleek reddish hair, her eyes. In her reflection, her eyes were dark holes to the street beyond.

"Strange is coming," she said, noticing the doctor walking down the sidewalk. "You want to play for _him_, Valeria?"

"I'd just as soon not," Valeria said, quickly stooping and putting the violin in its case. She picked it up and headed out of the living room. Illyana was grinning as she watched her roommate go.

"Burns you up that you're not perfect at it, I bet," she said.

"Shows what you know," drifted Valeria's voice from the other room. She stepped back into the living room, arching an eyebrow. "I enjoy challenges."

"Sure you do," Illyana said with a knowing smile, spotting the telltale signs of consternation in the corners of Valeria's carefully maintained expression.

Three rapid knocks hit the door.

Illyana opened it. "Enter at your will, O Mystical Presence," she intoned with a deep bow.

"That's lovely," Strange said, stepping in. He was thin and dapper, his red coat snug against him, streaked with water droplets that rolled off and spattered the floor, leaving the fabric dry. His mouth curled up in a saturnine smile. "Have you been practicing?"

"My studies of the deep enigma of the mystical arts leave me little time for etiquette," she murmured, only a trace of puckish glee behind her eyes. "I endeavor to serve with my meager store of knowledge."

"Let's see what we can do about deepening that meager store today," Strange said. "Did you do your homework?"

"Yes," she said. "I learned the Seven Sigils of the Vistanti so I could repeat them, in order, forwards or backwards."

"Excellent," Strange said, looking pleased. "That will be useful to you once you learn what can be built on top of such a foundation of power."

"If you don't mind my asking," she said, "I haven't seen you invoke greater powers. I want to learn the magic you know."

"When I am sure of you," he said quietly, "we can revisit that issue. Until then, it would do you no good to learn about what I use if you have no sound foundation to build further learning upon. Until you are confident as an invoker, we will not move on to other methods and styles. The pilings are the most important part of the bridge."

"Yes," she sighed, "and elegance is simplicity, the more we know the less we show. I'm familiar with the rote."

"You know it verbatim," Strange said with a slight nod, "but not by heart."

"Your timing is good," Valeria said. "I was just headed to the library." She picked up her jacket and book bag.

"Before you go," Strange said, reaching into his coat, "I've crafted a gift for you."

"A gift?" Valeria said, arching an eyebrow.

"Indeed," Strange said. He pulled out a case and opened it as though it contained precious gems. "These should serve you well."

Valeria put her book bag down and picked up the case. She looked at Strange, puzzled. "Glasses?"

"I know your vision exceeds perfection," Strange said with a nod. "But these are special glasses. Try them on."

Valeria tossed her jacket over the back of the chair and put the glasses on. They had slim steel rims; they were neither attractive or unattractive.

Illyana gasped. Valeria had changed, subtly. Her hair lost its luster, her skin became less perfect, her eyes unnoticeable and ordinary, her figure slightly shifted.

Mortal. She looked… mortal.

Strange nodded thoughtfully. "You are still a very attractive young woman," he said, "but now even to the trained eye and the mystic probe you are mortal, one who could have been born on this planet."

Valeria looked down at her hands, her expression unreadable. "I don't feel very… different," she said.

"Your powers remain," Strange said with a shrug, "but they are in check, weakened a bit. Your excess life force that makes you so much more than human is diverted and concealed. You won't want to wear those for a battle or excessive action. They may smooth your everyday life, however."

She looked him in the eye, then looked down as she slung her jacket on and picked up her bag.

"Thanks," she said, squeezing his arm gently as she moved past him to the door. "Now maybe I'll fit in." She didn't make eye contact as she opened the door and moved out into the rain, trotting down the steps and walking down the slick puddled sidewalk. She didn't look back.

"Perhaps it's time we went," Strange said absently as he watched Valeria walk down the street, eyes to the pavement.

"Perhaps so," Illyana said. "Where to?"

"Take us to your Limbo," Strange said, looking at her. "I'll direct our travel from there."

A flaring dark wreath of energy slid into being beneath them and whirled up around them. The apartment was empty.

**xXx**

"Can't say I'm fond of the smell," Illyana said, glancing around the studio.

"Beauty comes in many forms," Strange said, shrugging off his coat. He wore a simple tee-shirt beneath, and Illyana noticed he was wearing jeans and sneakers.

"So what are we here to learn?" she asked.

"I'm here to learn about you. You're here to see what you can glean from watching me instruct. And, of course, the riddles."

"Of course," she said dryly. "The riddles."

"The first riddle," Strange said, holding up a clay jar. "How do you reshape this?"

She bit her lip, thinking for a moment. "You mystically re-weave its structure," she said.

Strange maintained eye contact as he hurled the jar to the floor. It burst into dozens of shards.

"First you smash it," he said, "then you mix it in with wet clay."

"That was my next guess," she said.

"Have you ever thrown a clay pot?" Strange asked.

"I think you just did," she said sweetly.

"Not exactly what I meant," Strange said. He pulled a tarp aside, revealing squatted mounds of damp clay. "Take some of this… some slip…" he said, moving a bucket with a thin oily slick of clay in water and putting it next to a flat disc-shaped table. "Then…"

She watched him quickly go through the preparatory steps. He seated himself on a short stool, and put his foot on the pedal under the table.

"You get the wheel spinning," Strange said, and as he worked the pedal the wheel began to turn, faster and faster. "Then, you touch the clay. Fingers—so. Thumbs—so."

She watched, fascinated, as his hands became one with the clay. As the wheel spun, the clay at the center rose under his deft touch, and she could hardly tell whether the clay shaped his hands or whether his hands shaped the clay.

"Now _that's_ magic," she whispered.

He smiled. "In its way," he murmured, "just as the miracle of birth is magic, the weaving of a spider's web in its intricate and senseless detail is magic, the shimmering of sunlight on water is magic. The whole world is made of magic," he said, "and there are few mortals gifted with the sight and the taste for it."

"Is that another riddle?" she said.

He raised an eyebrow, not taking his eyes from his work. "The greatest riddle of all, the riddle that will underlie all your teaching, is the distance between what I teach and what you learn. In spite of our best efforts," he said softly, his eyes never leaving the clay, "that gap will never be fully closed. I will teach. You will learn. In the end, if we are successful, you will be transformed into a creature of power and compassion."

"What a lovely title," she said. "Perhaps I should do a cross-stitch with that phrase and put it over my bed. A creature of power and compassion."

Strange shifted his hands just slightly, and the beautiful shimmering vase became a twisted broken neck of clay. A smooth motion and he scooped it up and tossed it back in the kneading trough.

"Your turn," he said.

"My turn?" she echoed, not entirely pleased.

He stood, dragged a smallish wad of clay from the trough, and slapped it down on the wheel. He smiled at her. "Your turn."

She sat down hesitantly. Strange pulled up a stool next to her and began to gently pump the pedal, spinning the disc and the clay.

"Hands, so," he said, demonstrating. "Thumbs, so."

She touched the clay, and it came alive under her hands. Her breathing grew unsteady, her eyes shone as it moved and shifted under her delicate touch. "Incredible," she whispered.

Then her hands closed a touch too tightly, and the clay crumpled and buckled. She stared at it blankly for a moment.

"What have you learned?" Strange asked with a smile, a peculiar light in his eyes.

She glanced over at him, then set her jaw. She reached deep inside herself, closed her eyes, and focused. Then she opened her eyes, gesturing with her slick hands, and the clay twitched, then smoothed, rising into an oddly graceful sweep of earth.

"I have learned to make a superb vase," she said with a touch of triumph.

Strange looked at the curve of clay for a long moment.

"Nothing to say?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

He looked her in the eye. "It would shatter in the kiln," he said softly. He stood, and walked into the back of the studio. "Let's get cleaned up. The rest of today's teaching is in Limbo."

She sat staring at the vase, her jaw tight, seeing nothing.

**xXx**

"You're here for the half hour, eh?" the middle aged man said. He smiled. His face and his hair were gray, and he wore a black turtleneck and slacks, and converse hightops. He smiled, a tired smile. "Let's see what you know."

"I'm self taught," she said, a bit apologetically.

"What's your name again?" the man asked, squinting.

"Valeria," she said. She tucked the violin under her chin and drew the bow across the strings.

"Say," the teacher said, looking over his glasses. "You have a fine touch. Excellent wrist control. Instinctive, almost. That's good, very good."

"You'll teach me to fiddle, not play the violin, right?" she asked a bit anxiously.

"You bet I will," he said with a smile. "You'll be ready for the ho-down in no time flat."

"That's what I'm counting on," she said, her returned smile just barely short of brilliant.


	29. Redecorating

**xXx**

They casually skirted pools of gurgling, snarling lava as they headed for an empty stretch of Illyana's vast Limbo. From the moment they arrived, her legs had transformed below the knees, her shins graced with fetlocks, her feet replaced by dainty cloven hooves. A thin slick of ever-renewing blood and ichor perpetually burned off the lava, creating a dense mass of unwholesome smoke that curled and clung to everything.

"This abandoned enough for you?" she asked, looking at him with a peculiar grin.

"It will do," he said, nodding. "Now, let's see you make a throne."

She smiled. "We're in my world now," she said. "I can do whatever I want."

"Indeed," Strange said. "Show me."

She reached out, her arm and fingers stiff, and flexed. Shimmering eldritch armor slithered up her arm from her fingertips, and the earth trembled. Then a throne thrust itself up through the rock, its proportions magnificent, huge and solid and hulking on a dais over the gory lava pools. She sipped the air a little faster than she had before, but her eyes were bright with victory as she looked at Strange.

He smiled, but his smile seemed a bit sad. Her expression faded into wariness.

"Reshaping is much simpler," he said softly, "when the clay is yet unformed. Watch." He turned his back to her. "You can feel everything the land feels, just as it can feel everything that you are. Pay close attention," he said. Then his hands moved slightly, a reflexive echo of his thought. He was not as powerful here; Illyana felt that, she felt her power swelled to tremendous proportions and his diminished a great deal, so far from Prime, from the Earth that was commonly known. Her smile was almost a leer.

His fingers moved rapidly, and two pools of gory magma flinched then rose as pillars. As she watched, the pillars split and expanded, split and expanded, surface curling and coiling with magma. The pillars resolved into trees, and as she watched they branched and leafed out with the energies of her realm. They began to cool as the ground around them shifted, flexing. Their angry red began to crust into the darkness of cooled rock.

One of his hands gentled toward the new trees, the other cranked into an impossible position and pinched ever so carefully at the sky. Strange stood, bowed, his shoulders flexed as though under a great burden. The sky began to shift and coil. Where before it had reflected the eternal roiling burn of otherspace, now it began to smooth, to darken. As she watched, coils and waves of flame were compressed to circles, then to brilliant shining pinpoints of light and swathes of the texture of space. Clouds formed, first black and full of the foulness of the land's reek, then shifting and becoming pale, billowing cumulus.

Strange shifted and murmured soft words of binding over the reverberating silence of his magics. Then he shifted position again.

"Now for life," he whispered in English. Then he put his hands together, carefully, and the very air shimmered with a twist of refined power. The ground creaked as antlers slid up on either side of the throne, then they fused and wove together forming an intricate pale pattern behind the dark blocks of stone. The base of the throne smoothed, shimmered, paled, formed steps. Twisting and curling from the cracks of the shattered dark stone, blades of grass sprang free and stretched. Trees and grass and stone began to copy themselves, flowing out, gathering momentum as they gathered mass and space.

Strange turned to Illyana, his hands lowered. She felt the magic still twisting around him, but somehow he had given it momentum and now he simply shaped that momentum. She took a halting step to the side, and she stepped in a mat of grass.

"But," she said, and she gestured helplessly.

"I did not shape what is," he said softly, not even winded. "I felt the shape of what could be. Power is nothing without vision. Without vision, you cannot make the world anything but what it already is, and more so. That which can forget its shape has much more power than that which is trapped by its belief in its own nature. That which has a strong sense of its nature can bend itself to become more."

"That's a paradox," she said.

"Everything that matters is," Strange said, his smile twisting and for just a moment frightening. A faint witch-light drifted clear of the branches of the tree and wove through the air behind him.

She heard the cough of water and turned to see a spring spit once and then begin to flow from the base of her throne down the dais, then one on the other side, sending rippling water down to frame the steps up to the seat. Behind the seat was a delicate screen of filmy thin branches interwoven into mystic symbols. Illyana looked around at the shaped earth, the trees, the grass. Here and there, a confused demon crouched behind the trees or sniffed at the witch-lights.

Her world had grown beautiful.

Strange gestured, and the magic halted, poised, then lost momentum and slid back into itself.

The eldritch wood glimmered and shone with its own inner light. The stars far above sparked in the deep night. Illyana looked around, breathless.

"It's beautiful," she said.

Strange looked at the ground, then looked at her. "The past can be reshaped in only one way," he said.

She looked at him.

"It must be smashed," he said, "then ground up into powder and mixed with the elements that make your future. You'll recognize the texture," he said, "but you'll be free to make something new with it."

"How did you do that?" she asked, not yet able to demand.

"This world, this dimension is malleable," Strange said. "It is eager to be bent to your will. You are its Sorcerer Supreme, now that Belasco is gone. This world _aches_ to fulfill your whim."

"How do I make it do this?" she asked.

"Vision," Strange said. "And the art of asking and not taking; guiding, and not forcing; giving and not imposing. Everything longs to be something," he said, "and the greatest power you can ever possess is to give form to the wholesome longings of those you meet."

She stared at him. A part of her mind noticed that his hands were trembling slightly.

"I think that's enough for today," he said. "I have my own studies to attend to. I'll be interested," he said with half a smile as he looked at her, "to see what you learned today." Then he gestured, transporting himself back to Prime without her help.

She stood staring at the trees, the grass, the spring. The delicate, filigree patterning. She caught a whiff of cigar smoke.

"Sym," she said automatically. The big demon behind her bowed at the waist, then stood and took a deep elaborate puff on his cigar.

She knew what he longed to do right now.

"Burn it," she said, her eyes cold and harsh. "Burn it all. Burn it to the ground."

Demons squealed in fierce unholy joy and tore into the scenery. Illyana, the Swordbearer, stared up at the sky as roiling sheets of flame swept away the unreachable galaxies above.

**xXx**

Illyana trudged through the front door of the apartment, glancing over to the couch where Valeria relaxed with a book. Valeria looked up and smiled.

"You look like I feel," she said. "Rough lesson today?"

"I don't get it," Illyana said, kicking off her clogs and shrugging off her coat. "Strange is teaching me magic, so _I_ have to stay, but what do _you_ get out of the deal? Why do you stick around him?"

"Because I said I would," Valeria said, putting up one finger, "and because he's paying me," at which Illyana made a rude snorting noise, "and finally," Valeria added with a mock stern look raising a third finger, "because he offers me belonging."

"Belonging?" Illyana walked over and flopped down on the couch.

"Belonging," Valeria said with a nod. She shifted, lowering her book and facing Illyana. "When I first came here, I knew no one, had no grasp of what it was like to live in a world with intact governments. In the place where I am from—" she stopped abruptly, and shook her head once. Her eyes were haunted. "When Strange pulled me from the ether, when he brought me here, I wondered if this was better than death." She looked Illyana in the eye, and the younger woman's neck prickled.

"Strange is a man of many worlds," Valeria continued, her voice soft. "He found me in between them. What's more, he knows a world you and I may never fully understand. He started out as a normal man, with the sorrows and joys of a normal man. But then, later, he became something… more. He became powerful, on a scale that only a few on this plane can comprehend. In short," Valeria said, leaning back, "he knows the life of a mortal, and he knows the life of one from the stars. He has found a way to balance them without sacrificing either wholly. When I seek a skill I do not have, how better to learn it than to watch one who is accomplished in its use?"

"Sounds thin," Illyana said skeptically.

Valeria couldn't help but smile. "That's because you are young and foolish. Observe the wisdom of your elders, and benefit from their wells of depthless knowledge."

"I'll give you depthless knowledge," Illyana said with a grin, scooping a pillow off the couch. She flung it at Valeria, who was on her feet in a moment, deflecting the missile. Illyana closed with a swift kick, which Valeria also deflected, spinning, pushing the red-head back to bounce on the couch.

"Now, young grasshopper," Valeria said with a grin, "You will see the benefit of learning to use great power with subtlety. You will see the true meaning of gentleness."

"What's that?" Illyana said, clumsy as she hauled herself off the couch and balanced.

"Strength under control," Valeria said with a smile. "That is true gentleness. That is what we're here to learn."

For a moment they forgot they were playing and they stood looking into each other's eyes.

The phone rang. Illyana turned and picked it up. "Power Pad, this is Goddess," she said.

"Hey, Yana," said an amused voice on the other end. "Just seeing if we're on for dinner tonight, the three of us. I was about to start cooking."

"You bet, Doug," Illyana said. "When should we show up?"

"Whenever you like," Doug replied. "I'll be cooking for about half an hour. You can feel free to come over and watch me cook if you want, or you can take your time. Just don't let it get cold, okay?"

"We'll be there," Illyana said. "Bye."

"Chou," Doug said, and he hung up. Illyana looked at Valeria and grinned.

**xXx**

Doug hung up, shaking his head and raising his eyebrows. "Power Pad. Really." Just then there was a sharp knock at the door. He walked over and opened it.

"Hi," Illyana said with a brilliant grin. "We're early."

"Hey, come on in," Doug said, chuckling and turning his back. Valeria and Illyana stepped in and closed the door.

"Water's ready to boil," Doug said. "Make yourselves comfortable."

Illyana glanced around his apartment. The mini-kitchen was in the same area as the living room. A short hallway led back to the bathroom and the two bedrooms. All the doors were open, and the luminous glow of computer screens filtered into the hallway from the guest bedroom. Illyana found a comfortable couch and seated herself. Valeria leaned on the counter.

"You ladies don't waste any time," Doug said.

"It's been a long day," Valeria sighed. "It's good to unwind with dinner."

"I agree," Doug nodded. "No activity is more social than eating." He quickly and expertly sliced a loaf.

"Where's your tv?" Illyana asked, glancing around.

"No use for one," Doug said. "It's too slow. Plus, I can't suspend my disbelief," he said. "Not even a little bit. Not even for the duration of a stupid story. Not even for CNN's version of the truth. I see too much," he said, gesturing out from his eyes. "No good." He expertly spread half-melted butter between the slices, followed with a dash of garlic salt.

"I think we're boiling," Valeria said. Doug tossed a handful of raw spaghetti wands into the hot water, where they spun around into a fan before beginning to soften.

"In a past age," Doug grinned, "I would have been an oracle, a soothsayer. I can throw spaghetti and read the future," he said. He quickly began to stir the noodles.

"What does the future hold?" Valeria asked, something sad in her eyes as she looked at him.

He looked down into the pot. "The future has true knowledge, knowledge that can save the world and save a soul, but the cost is dear. The cost is always dear."

There was a long moment of silence.

"You really a prophet?" Illyana asked.

Doug glanced up and grinned, shrugging. "We're _all_ prophets," he said. "Some of us are just a bit more accurate, that's all."

"Hey, Illyana," Valeria said. "Why don't you make the sauce?"

"Saucy wench!" Doug said, his smile threatening to engulf his whole face. "I'll direct you as we go."

"Gimmie that frypan, I'll show you saucy wench," Illyana said, jutting her jaw out and narrowing her eyes in mock consternation. She sashayed into the kitchen.

"Just dump the wet stuff on the hot stuff, spice it up, and serve hot on a bed of noodles," Doug said, his shoulders bouncing with contained laughter.

"I thought tonight was family programming," Illyana said, glancing at Doug and grinning mischievously.

"A tv edit doesn't change reality," Doug said, sighing. "Much as we sometimes wish it would."

Ten minutes later the bread was out of the oven, the noodles were strained and buttered, and the sauce was heated and soothed and spiced. The rest was just a quick and graceful ballet of food collection, then the three sat down on pillows around the coffee table in the living room.

Talk was thin amid the eating, and the food was good. Ten minutes of quiet was all the time it took for most of the food to meet a quick and thorough end.

"Well," Valeria said, stretching, "Thank you for a positively lovely evening, Doug."

"It's my pleasure," he said, nodding. "I don't get a lot of company. You two have made my week tonight."

"Maybe we should do this weekly then," Illyana said, looking at him directly.

"I wouldn't think of disrupting the schedules of a couple of jet setting goddesses like yourself," Doug grinned, leaning back on his palms.

"Speaking of which," Valeria said apologetically, glancing at her watch. "Catch you at work tomorrow, Doug."

"See you," Doug said, watching her go.

"I'll catch up, if that's alright," Illyana said as Valeria shrugged into her coat and kicked on her shoes. Valeria nodded, smiled, waved, and was out the door. It closed behind her.

Doug and Illyana looked at each other. Illyana smiled and shrugged. "Thought I'd help clean up."

A few short minutes later Illyana was washing and Doug was wiping the dishes and putting them back in the cupboards.

"Thanks for helping out," Doug said. "I don't have a dishwasher."

"No problem," she said, smiling. "I don't have anything to rush home to."

"I like you too," Doug said, "but we'll never be an item. I'm sorry."

"What are you talking about?" Illyana said sharply, looking at him. He didn't meet her eyes.

"I break code," Doug said simply. "I've done it since puberty. Any encoded information, I can cipher it out. Languages, military encryption, visual basic, html, you name it. That includes social pattern and body language." He shrugged. "I read people like you'd read an email. You think I'm cute and you're working out your chances. You figure you'll invite me to _oh_, not a movie, a walk in the park might work. After that a cup of coffee. That would give you the chance to see how we look together. I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head and looking down at the increasingly dry plate in his grip, "I don't ask for this information, it comes to me."

"That's incredible," Illyana whispered.

"Gets better," Doug said, turning away from her and slowly putting the dish in the cupboard. "You hate Strange, but you need him. You're trying to decide what to do, how to keep your feelings secret, but you're scared of him, of what he knows, of what he can do. Mostly your feelings, good and bad, revolve around the fact you can't control him."

Doug turned and finally looked her in the eye. "Don't worry about it, I don't tell everyone what I see. I'm a man made of secrets, body and soul. I like you. I think you're cute. But we'll never be together. Because I drive people crazy, and they drive me crazy. I need fourteen hours all to myself in every twenty four hour period. Because if I don't get my time away from people, bad things happen. There's less of me and more of what I'm seeing and feeling and understanding. When it gets bigger than me," he said, shaking his head. He stopped talking, his eyes meeting hers.

She reached out and gently touched his face. "You know what that says?" she asked.

He stood, breathing hard, unblinking. "It's been a great night," he managed. "Maybe…"

"I don't need any special talent," she said, a certain sadness in her eyes, "to know what you're saying."

She turned, picked up her coat and slipped on her shoes, and left without looking back. Doug was alone. He let out a deep breath and sagged back onto a barstool, leaning his head back and closing his eyes, his merciless hungry senses playing back every nuance.


	30. 30 Housesitting

**xXx**

The sword whipped around and down. Just as the man in the red coat started to turn, the blade caught him in the shoulder; it's razored length of ensorcerelled energy lashed through his ambient defenses and tore through bone, meat, grating to a stop on his spine. His arm, spinning off below the shoulder, bounced knuckle first as blood spattered out of his startled visage. Kicking hard with her goat foot, she knocked him clear of the blade, screaming as she whirled another slash and her demons bounded in. The cut snapped into his chest, almost cutting him in two, and as he collapsed unable to speak, his jaws working like those of a dying fish, the demons hunched around him and began stuffing his flesh into their maws.

_"Do not kill him quickly," the Swordbearer said, her gleaming armor covering her body. "Savor his dying." Four gestures preserved his life so long as his head remained; this could last for years. She stepped back, raised her head and screamed victory at the roiling flame of the sky—_

Illyana sat bolt upright in her bed, trembling, chest sipping air rapidly as she clutched her tee-shirt to her chest. Soaked. She was soaked with cold sweat.

She grunted as she slid her legs off the bed. She dropped to the floor, headed for the kitchen. Heart still racing. She wondered if Strange could feel her dreaming.

She hoped he couldn't.

Illyana opened the fridge and pulled out the milk. By the light of the open fridge, she poured herself a glass, then replaced the milk. She moved to the window and looked out at the sleeping street. She sipped her milk, then looked down. Her knees bent backwards, her shins had fetlocks, her cloven hoofs printed the carpet.

She sighed.

"Enough of this anyway," she muttered. Taking a long drink to finish the milk, she gestured and a flaring disc of eldritch energies slid up from the floor.

"Miss me?" she asked Sym as she dropped to the floor of her throne chamber with a clack. The huge dark demon shrugged.

"Sure," he said. "We miss you every time you go. You are the center of our world."

"See to it I'm not interrupted," she said. She hopped up on her throne, curled up in the seat, and let out a sigh.

In seconds she was sound asleep, untroubled by dreams.

**xXx**

Valeria let herself in to the apartment. She headed back towards the bedroom with the violin case.

"How's fiddling going?" Illyana asked from the dining room table. She looked up from her books.

"Not too bad, actually," Valeria said. "I know enough to learn the rest on my own. You should have seen the look on the poor teacher's face after I got a day of practice in."

"I know the feeling," Illyana said wryly. "I suppose you can remember the Eighteen Aspects of the Flames of Faltine."

"As a matter of fact," Valeria said with a smile. She bent over Illyana's much erased and redrawn diagram. "No, Fritalis and Urnoma are juxtaposed, Fritalis isn't opposite Slitorvia. And the eighteenth point is here, not there. Otherwise, you're coming along. That's a great start."

Illyana stared down at her paper for a long moment before she started to erase and redraw yet again. "You probably know more of this micky mouse crap than I do," she muttered. "I'm tired of this. For _months_ Strange has been giving me what he calls 'foundational training'. I'm ready for the real magic. For the good stuff. For the spells and wards and protections and researches. I'm going to be old before he gets to the power."

"Discipline is the foundation of power," Valeria said. "Maybe the information is a route to build discipline as well as inborn knowledge. Maybe he's teaching you how to learn."

"Why do you always take his side?" Illyana asked, eyes fixed on the paper. "If you know so much, why don't _you _study magic?"

Valeria laughed. "If you take power over the magic, you give the magic power over you. No," she said, shaking her head, "I'll be content with my, as we say, foundational knowledge and leave the mystic manipulation to others. I do not wish to be drawn into the intricate responsibilities that come with the powers. Besides, I don't always take Strange's side. I respect him, but I find it difficult to entirely trust him, if that makes sense."

"Because he comes across a little snobbish?" Illyana said, raising an eyebrow and smiling. "A little cold? He makes it so difficult not to notice that we're tools in his master scheme."

"That is unavoidably true," she said with a smile. She shook her head. "He's a great man with great power, but he can be so secretive and stubborn."

"And Strange," Illyana said with a puckish grin.

"Speak of the devil," Valeria said, glancing out the window.

Illyana quickly finished the revised diagram, then stood and brushed herself off. Valeria strolled over to the door and opened it as Strange reached the top of the steps. His expression was grave.

"Good morning, ladies," he said.

"Finished your round at the Planetary?" Illyana asked.

"Yes, I got things squared away there," Strange replied. He looked at Valeria. "I'm afraid I'm asking you to take over the operations for a while," he said.

Valeria's eyes opened wide. "Why?" she asked.

Strange closed the door, then stood lost in thought for a moment. "In my astral probing and in my scrying, I've discovered a force. Some powerful creature, tied in with our world, yet not in it or of it. I sense its power swelling, but all the spirits can tell me about it is that the creature 'dwells in darkness.' I have skimmed the darkest realms, but I can not find this creature. I fear the fate of the world may hang in the balance. It is critical that I discover this threat while it is still birthing, because if I wait until it arrives…" he sighed. "It may be too late. It's time I started searching more intensively. I need to leave Prime for a while."

There was a long moment of silence.

"What about my training?" Illyana asked in a small voice.

He turned to her with a smile. "I've given you a beginning. I will return to finish it. Be patient. For the moment, that is your instruction and your training. Wait until I return, remain diligent to your tasks, and we'll see if you have the stamina to remain focused over time without someone as a taskmaster. Sorcerers must be self-disciplined or the magic masters them in time. Valeria can continue your martial arts training as well."

She nodded, watching him with unwavering eyes.

"In the mean time," Strange said, looking back and forth between the girls, "Be good to each other and to the world. Doug will help you with anything else you need." He smiled over the awkward moment. "I'm not good at saying goodbye," he said, and he nodded curtly and let himself out.

Valeria stepped over to the window and put her hand on the glass, watching him walk down the street. Illyana stayed by the door.

"He goes to the dark places," Valeria murmured as she watched him go, "to protect those who live in the light."

Illyana was silent for a moment. "I go to the dark places too," she said. A stepping disc flared up around her, and Valeria was alone watching the Sorcerer Supreme walk away.

Strange turned the corner and was out of sight.

The world suddenly seemed very, very heavy.

**xXx**

"It's good to know you have a homey side, Valeria," the trim young woman said with a malicious grin. "Here I thought you were all about fluted goblets, veddy proper English, and refined living. First fiddling, now a farmer's market." She shook her head. "A girl doesn't know what to think."

"Then think that I'm tired of your cooking and want to make something fresh and delicious," the tall woman next to her said. She wore dark-rimmed glasses, and she was outfitted in khakis and a t-shirt, looking every inch a professional. Her blonde hair was up and back in a bun with two tines through it, leaving a vaguely Eastern impression.

"Hoo hoo!" her companion said. "Must have hit a sore spot, getting all personal and insulting on me. No, I'm just here to see you hobnob with the country folk, that's all," she added, still grinning. She was in frayed cutoff jeans and a tank top and canvas shoes, not at all professional looking, her hair in a pony tail.

They trotted down the brick steps to the open air market. Folding tables were set up and loaded with produce, and pickup trucks heavy with watermelon had their tailgates down. Posterboard signs with prices vied for customer attention.

"Alright, Illyana," Valeria said, "how do you want to play this? Stick together or meet back here in half an hour?"

"Are you kidding?" Illyana said. "Split up, we'll cover more ground. I'll be back here in thirty minutes."

"Be careful," Valeria added.

Illyana cocked her head at her and blinked. "Why?" she asked, a bit surprised. "I think we're safe enough here. I mean really. Who's going to do anything to _us_?"

"Just a feeling," Valeria said. "Strange is gone, and I'm feeling a bit… cautious, that's all."

Illyana shook her head. "Half an hour, bottom of the steps." Valeria nodded, and they went their separate ways.

Valeria looked around and sighed, then stepped into the shifting maze of shoppers, tables, and food. It just wasn't the same. A faint diesel smell hung in the air, the people were loud, plastic was everywhere, and so few of those here were having a good time. She glanced at the high tension power lines that skirted the edge of the park. Not the same at all.

She bought some eggs, some onions, some peppers, some corn. The food was different, too; she missed the turnips and radishes, the huge leafy lettuce and cabbage.

She glanced at an apple cart as she walked by. An old woman sat behind it, half asleep as the morning's heat shimmered down.

"Excuse me young woman," the old woman suddenly said as Valeria was walking past her cart. Valeria stopped, and turned. "Here," the crone said, offering an apple. "Please, try my wares. If the others see my apple making you happy, they'll come and buy themselves one to become as beautiful as you."

"No thank you," Valeria said with an apologetic smile. She turned to move on.

"If not the apple, then the advice," the old woman said, her voice lowering. Valeria found it difficult to turn her back; she looked at the old woman, puzzlement creasing a line in her forehead. "Listen close, your life is in the balance, and more. Soon you will be tested," the crone said, an urgency thrilling through her voice. "If you pass your test, then they will come in force. If you fail, you die. Be ready. The fate of the world depends on it."

For a moment, her eyes were piercing in their intensity. Then she stood and walked away from the apple cart. Just then, a family pushed past Valeria, arguing about whether to go to the fair or the movie after this, the harried mother and father trying to mediate as they struggled through the crowd. Valeria didn't dare force them to the side, and the old woman was moving with startling speed, vanishing into the crowd. Valeria pursued, but after ten steps the old woman was gone, vanished as though she had never been.

Valeria stood unmoving in the midst of the crowd, a cold feeling creeping up her spine. All day she had been uneasy with danger, danger at the edge of her senses that she could not explain. Something was going to happen.

Maybe something was happening.

"Illyana," she murmured under her breath, and she began to search for the young woman.

On the other side of the market was a bridge that led to the park. About fifteen feet below the bridge was a shallow stream. Relief leapt within Valeria as she saw Illyana's long straight hair falling around her face, concealing it as she looked down into the stream. She was seated on the broad stone lip of the wall along the side of the bridge.

Relief froze into shock as a loop of rope whipped up, snapped around her ankle, and yanked Illyana down off the bridge.

Valeria glanced around, then snatched her glasses off and tucked them in her pocket. She almost flew to the side of the bridge and she leaped, splashing down in water that ran it's chilly swiftness past her ankles.

Shadowed figures in dark loose outfits waited for her, their faces concealed in masks that showed only their eyes. Their eyes concealed all expression but ruthless determination.

"Where is Illyana?" Valeria demanded.

After all, there were only five masked figures.

One took a step to the side and cut a thin taut cable; behind him, off the other side of the bridge, a counterbalance plummeted towards the water. A net slashed up through the water, surrounding Valeria in whipping stinging steel cable. Jaw set in irritation, she shredded the net and dropped to the water after being pulled up only as far as a short hop would have carried her. The cabled net sang up and across the bridge. She was soaked.

"Very nice. Where is Illyana? If I must ask again, there will be violence," she said as her eyes narrowed.

The five exchanged a glance, then spread out to flank her. One drew a straight sword, one a pair of nunchaku, one extended a staff, one paired katar. The fifth drew no weapon.

Valeria smiled. "Foolish. Come then. Show me what you have."

As one, they snapped into action. Her palm guided the sword thrust past her body, missing by spare inches. The nunchaku slashed across her eyes viciously as she lashed back with a kick that carried the one with the staff back out of the fight, most likely for the duration. A duck and a sidestep carried her away from the whickering knives as their wielder slid in low. They barely disturbed the rippling current they danced on.

She slid a kick at the back of the knife wielding man, but he twisted to the side and deflected most of the force. He slashed his knife across her inner knee; if she had been human, that would have cut her tendon, crippled her, and ended the fight. The knife instead slid across her flesh as though the blade had no edge.

Moving with incredible speed, she snatched the front of his garb and gently tossed him into the 'chucker; the two snapped together with shattering impact and hissed through the air, thudding off the bridge's underside support and splashing awkwardly into the shallow stream.

On one side, the man with the sword. On the other, a woman in black garb, who held no weapon. Valeria looked at neither, instead settled into a stance, allowing them the first strike.

They took it, simultaneously. Valeria whipped out two fingers and touched the tip of the sword; it shattered. Her forearm lashed forward and down, deflecting the momentum of the other figure. The kick was a diversion, and the leaping unarmed woman spun in midair and punched a thumb needle into Valeria's neck. The needle snapped, and Valeria shifted her stance, her shoulder pivoting into her attacker. Who flew twenty feet and pounded across the underside of the other side of the bridge, spinning over the shallow stream and skidding down in a sheet of water.

One on one. Valeria squared off with the remaining assailant. "I have been gentle," she said, her voice a bit strained. "Where is Illyana? Neither of us wants this to turn lethal."

Her unarmed assailant whipped to the side in a cartwheel, then backflipped twice keeping his footing in the slick bed of the stream then bounding up and catching on the underside of the bridge. Valeria followed, stepping gracefully through the water. "You will find no safety up there," she said. "I grow tired of asking,"

Movement caught the corner of her eye, and quick as she was she got no more than a glance of a dark figure lowering a thick heavy cable into the stream—

Voltage from a high tension power line shocked into Valeria through the water, popping her out of it and smacking her against the underside of the bridge. Then the line was removed, and four of the ninja were facing off with her when she hit the water.

She pushed herself up, and stood, glowering. "That wasn't very nice," she said. She tried to conceal her surprise. They must be a lot tougher than they looked. She had tried not to kill them, but they should be closer to death than they appeared.

"Where is Illyana," she said, her voice insistent. She was beginning to grow angry.

"Right here," came a voice from the bank. Valeria looked over, and to her surprise so did her assailants.

Illyana stood on the bank, her hair up in a ponytail. "You mind telling me what you're doing to my friend?" she asked, a dark glee in her eyes. She snapped, and behind her a flaring disk whipped into the air perpendicular to the ground.

In that moment, a dark clad figure burst free of the brush and whipped through the air at her, blade at the ready. Too late to adjust; the figure slid noiselessly into the disk and vanished.

"Let's move this party," Illyana said, and she shifted and gestured. The attackers leaped—


	31. Don't Get Nailed

A sheet of water slapped down and hissed on the hot stone, followed by Illyana and Valeria and one of the dark figures.

"Three escaped," Valeria said, her legs shaky. "Not bad at all. That was a big 'port," she managed, and she gracelessly slid down to sit on the ground.

Valeria saw a pile of demons, and a waving arm and twitching foot sticking out. "The other one?" she asked, nodding.

"Yeah," Illyana said. "Standing orders that if anyone comes through without me they are to be 'restrained' until further notice," she said. She looked over at the remaining assailant. He was crouched, ready for combat, deeply unsettled.

The sky was a dark sheet of eternally roiling flame, the ground was hot stone, dark and blasted, and pools of lava roiled and belched in the darkness of the steaming landscape. A dim miasma hung in the air, and thin smoke curled and twisted free of rents in the earth. Surrounding the four who came from the stream was a ring of demons, their knobby hides and twisted claws and ferocious leers considerably more unsettling than the scenery.

"Welcome to my world, ninja twerps," Illyana said as her feet twisted back into cloven hooves, her shins and calves slimming further and sprouting fetlocks. She rolled easily to her feet, replenished by this place. "Boy did you pick the wrong gals to mug."

"Ninja?" Valeria asked, her face troubled.

"See, you need to watch more movies," Illyana sighed. "Sic 'im, boys."

The remaining standing ninja yelped as demons uncoiled at him from all directions. He leaped and spun, blades slashing. Valeria and Illyana ignored the combat; it was foregone that he would lose. Both of them knew from unpleasant experience.

Illyana formed a claw with her fingers, and the stone rippled up and around the captive ninja. The demons backed off; one of them licked at his wounds.

"Heya, bub," Illyana said, squatting in front of the ninja. "Mind telling me what's the big idea here?"

His eyes were cold as she ripped his face mask off. His mouth was shut in a thin line. She slowly smiled.

"I hope you don't say much," she says, "because I have ways of getting information out of you that you won't like nearly as much as I will."

"Illyana," Valeria said softly, her eyes stern. "Please."

"You're right," she sighed. "Get him boys," she called to her demons. "When you've got him pinned, get Sym to rock 'em up until I get back. Okay?"

"Yeah boss," came a grunt from one of the demons, and scattered "Yes Queen" and "Will do" echoed back too. The ninja cried out as one of the demons bit his calf. Illyana was smiling as she teleported herself and Valeria home.

"You enjoy that far too much," Valeria said. "It is one thing to have darkness within you. All of us do, to one degree or another. But you must not ever revel in it," she continued. "If you do, then it will claim you. If that happens, then Strange has made a mistake and I urged him to make it. I believe you are better than that," she said earnestly, putting her hand on Illyana's shoulder. "Please. For all our sakes."

Illyana met her eyes, and for a moment there was uncertainty.

"Not to interrupt," came a voice from the doorway to the bedroom. Both women spun to see someone in their apartment.

The newcomer was trim, toned, with smooth Asian features and sleek black hair. She was dressed in a business pant suit, a purple deep enough to pass for black. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes were serious.

"Who are you?" Valeria asked as she and Illyana shifted, ready to fight. Valeria faced the newcomer, Illyana looked the other direction.

"As you may have guessed, I am a ninja," she said, holding her hands out, palms facing Valeria. "I mean you no harm. Hear me out."

"You have an odd way of meaning us no harm," Valeria said, anger creeping into her voice.

"All ninja do not have the same allegiance, any more than all sorcerers do," the woman said pointedly. "Call me Lock. I am here to help you."

"At least hear her out," Illyana said.

"Very well. Say your piece. Make it both quick and convincing," Valeria said, her eyebrows lowering.

"The ninja who attacked you are members of a secret clan known as the Hand," Lock said. "They trained me, and I abandoned their ways and their teaching. They have been shadowing you for days, and I have been shadowing them. They have an interest in you two."

"What interest is that?" Valeria asked.

"I don't know," Lock said simply. "Whatever it is, it's big. I have gathered that the Jonin, their leader, has come here from Japan for some purpose that involves the two of you." She paused. "That is not common. Whatever he wants you for, it's critical to him."

"Sounds a lot like 'good ninja, bad ninja' to me," Illyana said.

"I have no reason to hide my motive from you," Lock shrugged. "I was trained with the understanding that I would serve the interests of the Hand. I have managed to evade their control, and I have no intention of serving them. I must be silenced, so I do not teach others what I know. By my very existence and knowledge I am a serious threat to them. My intention is to reach and kill the Jonin, the one who rules their clan. He is very old and very powerful. As long as he is alive it is only a matter of months before I am caught by his agents. He is invulnerable in Japan. Here, though," she said with a gesture, "I might be able to get to him."

"You are an assassin," Valeria said with distaste.

"For what it's worth, I'm not for hire," she said. "It really doesn't matter what you think of me. Either you can profit from my skills and knowledge or you can serve as bait. Either way you serve my purposes. Say the word and we never met." Her eyes were hard. For a long moment, she and Valeria looked into each other's eyes, gauging resolve. Valeria nodded.

"Very well. What do you suggest we do?"

"Tell me about that light under the bridge," Lock said.

"I can teleport people," Illyana said. "I got two prisoners."

"Really," Lock said, a new respect in her eyes. "I would like very much to speak with them."

Illyana grinned. "Here we go," she said.

The disk slid up around them, and Valeria was alone. She walked to the window and looked down over the street, watching the passersby, feeling the traces of paranoia deepen within her. She absently rubbed her arm, feeling a slight chill. Maybe it was time to meditate.

**xXx**

Strange drafted down through the leafy canopy of the shifting forest. He settled to his feet and adjusted his coat. A faint giggle rippled through the surrounding greenery.

"Nyat tomaris Schaelin," Strange said, with a short bow. "My greetings to your court."

"Whassamatta?" squeaked a little pixie, dancing out on goat legs, almost tall enough to rest her chin on the top of Strange's foot. "Earth spirits get too boring?"

"Not at all," Strange said, kneeling. "But your Queen sees many things, knows many things, and I am searching for her wisdom. Can you tell her?"

"She knows," came a voice like cool mist from the shadows of a tree. Strange slowly stood, not turning.

"I have come because something is trying to enslave Prime," Strange said softly. "Not trying to break in; no, seeking a more subtle passage, and so far my every search for the invader has been countered."

"It has been long since I looked upon you, mortal wizard," the voice said. "Face me."

Strange turned and faced the tall willowy shadow, made of breeze and stillness. "You can speak for the Queen, I know. She expected I would come?"

The shade nodded. "She can not help you, mortal. The force that threatens your world is beyond her powers to counter. It could destroy this realm, corrupting our magics against us until we were thinner than air."

For a moment Strange was silent. "But she told you who might be able to tell me more."

"Of course," the shade nodded. "Kutori, Sage of Ether. You know the way to find him?"

"He does not grant audience lightly," Strange said.

"The Queen has vouched for you. He will see you," the shade said.

"I am most grateful," Strange said with a bow.

"See that you remember that, mortal, if we ever have need of you," the fey creature said. Then Strange slipped sideways out of their dimension, sailing into the ether between worlds.

**xXx**

To her credit, Lock only seemed stunned for a few seconds. "Where are we?" she asked, breathless in the sudden heat.

"This is an underspace, a dimension outside what you're used to. I call it Limbo," she said. "There are deeper places," she added with a shrug.

"Indeed," murmured Lock, her eyes still wide. "And where are the prisoners?"

Illyana gestured toward two columns of rock with heads poking out the top.

"Oh," Lock said. She walked over to them, smiled, and bowed slightly. She greeted them in Japanese.

"I didn't want to know what you were talking about anyway," Illyana said. She squatted down on her goat legs and watched.

"Where is the Jonin going to stay?" Lock asked in fluent Japanese.

Both of them stared at her, unresponsive.

"I am going to kill him," Lock said. She nodded. "You know who I am. You know I can do what I say. You have two choices. Either you can tell me where he will be and we will keep you snug and safe here until he is dead, or I can have you released right now and find the Jonin on my own." She raised her eyebrows.

Both of them stared at her, unresponsive. She saw fear in the eyes of one. She sighed.

"Either you can talk to me," she continued in Japanese, "or I can leave you to this witch and she can feed you to her demons. I will succeed. You have the chance to save yourselves. Protect the body. Do so you may live, or have a chance to go down fighting. But here?" she gestured. She shook her head and sighed. "My friends, you are dead men. Nothing more than meat. Last chance."

"All I know is that August the eighth will be the day of the Great Ceremony, which the Jonin himself will preside over," one of the ninja blurted in Japanese. "That is all I know! Spare me!"

"Why the eighth?" Lock snapped. "Speak quickly!"

"That will be the hottest night of the year," the ninja replied. "That's all I know!"

"Where are your headquarters now?"

"They move each day until the Jonin arrives! I do not know where he will be!"

"Silence fool!" snarled the other ninja.

"What hell will be worse than this?" gasped the talkative one. "What honor is lost in revealing so little knowledge to one who knows our secrets?"

Lock eyed the two for a long moment, then turned to Illyana. "Well," she said in English, "It's a start. They need you two for a great ceremony on the eighth."

"Let's see," Illyana said, "today is the fifth."

Lock nodded curtly. "Can you keep them intact until after this is over?"

"Sure," Illyana shrugged.

"Alright then," Lock said. "Send me back."

Lock stepped out of the disk and brushed at her clothes distastefully. "What a stink," she murmured.

Valeria sensed she was not alone. She opened her eyes, then stood in a fluid motion and strolled out into the living room. "Hello," she said. "Welcome back."

"I discovered that they need you on the eighth," Lock said simply. "If you can last the next few days, we should be past the danger point. Hopefully I'll get the Jonin and you two can return to your normal lives." She smiled.

Valeria tried to smile back.

Lock looked around and sighed. "Your place," she said. "It's been carefully picked over by ninja. They have learned everything they can know about you by examining your living space, maybe a bit more. They have ways of seeing." She shook her head. "I wouldn't stay here if I were you. It's vulnerable."

"Tell me more about these ninja," Valeria said with a gesture.

Lock sighed and seated herself gracefully on the couch. "Ninja were in a way a counter to the samurai of Japan. Samurai were creatures of honor and straightforwardness, where ninja had no scruples and were creatures of roundabout tactics and darkness. The yin and yang; yet while they complement each other there is still not the clean dualism that a westerner would like. Where one leaves off the other begins, and they do coil around each other. For more practical purposes," she said, "the ninja operate in secret societies, clans. To reach the level of skill they reach, they have to sacrifice much of their humanity." She stopped for a moment.

"The way of the ninja," she said, continuing more slowly and not looking at Valeria, "is the way of death. They must either give it or take it. There is no compromise. They sacrifice themselves that they may be whoever they wish to be. Their individualism is absorbed in the needs of the clan, and they become tools. Individuals aside," she said, "the ninja know no fear, no selfishness. The price they have paid to become what they are renders any punishment you can inflect on them secondary at best. They cannot be stopped short of death or a shift in the will of the clan. That is why I must kill the Jonin. His successor might be willing to recognize I am less dangerous if ignored than I am if assaulted."

"Does this describe you? You said you were a ninja," Valeria said, crossing her arms.

Lock looked up with a hint of a smile and haunted eyes. "This is what they tried to make me," she said. "I turned my back on the way of death. I have the skills they ingrained in me, yes. But I do not follow their path. According to their belief, if I turn from them they will kill me; if I turn from the Code I will kill myself."

"Is that what this is all about?" Valeria asked. "Escape through suicide?"  
"No," Lock said. "No, I want to live. Very much. I have things I want to live for, you see. My world is bigger than their narrow focus of power and pain. For them, death is in its way a release, not something to be feared. They do not throw their lives away, but they do not protect them as jealously as a normal person would."

"So their prediction about you is wrong?" Valeria said.

"I hope to be the exception that proves the rule," Lock said, her gaze unwavering.

They lapsed into silence. Outside, the afternoon waned.

"Well, thank you," Valeria said, feeling a bit awkward. Lock stood, smiling.

"I'll be nearby," she said. "At least until after the eighth. That's when they'll make their move, if not before. Be careful," she said, her eyes solemn. "They adapt. They may look like anyone."

"Was it you that was pretending to be an old woman, who warned me right before the attack?" Valeria asked, suddenly remembering.

"No," Lock said, looking at her sideways. "I arrived at the scene right at the end. An old woman?"

"Forget it," Valeria said, shaking her head. She smiled. "Be careful," she said. "You may need caution more than I do."

"You may have something special about you," Lock said, "but if you get sloppy…" she shook her head. "Just don't get nailed." She stepped out the door and hit the street, taking ten steps and vanishing into the pedestrian traffic.

Valeria watched her go, shaking her head. She wondered briefly how they could have attracted the attention of a ninja clan, then she dismissed the thought. "Could have been anything," she murmured. "Who knows why these people seek us out. Maybe we are just freak magnets."

She cooked herself some supper.


	32. Positioning

**xXx**

Strange settled himself on the surface of the spinning brass globe in the twirling twilight of a pastel ethereal backdrop. "Kutori, Sage of Ether, I am come. Through the Veils of Snirotha and the Channels of Chroga I have made my way, with proper signs and sigils, to partake of your wisdom. I come recommended, I ask audience."

"Aren't we confident of our worthiness," resonated a voice through the brass shell. "Go away."

"I can do that," Strange said. "I will drop by and leave a note with the Queen, she will be _most_ interested to hear how her recommendation has become worthless with Kutori the Sage."

"Nasty mortals," grunted a voice inside as the brass warped and shifted, creating a portal big enough for the thin wizard. "No patience, no long view."

"Indeed, that's my problem at the moment," Strange said, slipping down into the globe. On the outside it was impossible to sense the dimensions of the globe in the ether. Inside, it was miles across. Strange stood on the balcony of a vast library, face to face with a hulking mound of a creature. An eyestalk slipped down to inspect him as delicate fingerlike legs moved books around and turned pages, studied by a dozen other eyestalks.

"Kutori, the Queen was vulnerable to the dark force that threatens my dimension. I cannot find it, however. I sense that in its way it already has bypassed my veils of security, but I can find no breach in the defenses of the Earth. At every turn in my search I am countered, this threat is two steps ahead of me. The Queen said you might know more."

"Prime is not my specialty, wizard," grunted Kutori with the wave of a tendril grown for just that purpose.

"Just so," Strange said. "But the ether is, and ways of entering and leaving sealed dimensions.

For a moment there was quiet between them. "You do not need me to cipher this riddle for you," the Sage rumbled. "You know all you need to for the problem to be discovered, though solving it is beyond any of us I fear."

"I am not a sage," Strange said, choosing his words carefully, "but my body of knowledge is nonetheless significant. I don't suppose you could help me narrow it down?"

"Sages are for gaining information you lack," the Sage said with a sniff from several nostrils. "You have the information you need, save for a name that will clarify the entire riddle. This is beneath me, and hardly worth riddling with you. Seek out the Weaver. He will help you weave your information into a tapestry with a view that becomes clear as you work."

Strange stood still for a moment. "I sense I have little time," he said softly.

"Then perhaps you shouldn't dawdle," the Sage said, withdrawing his eyestalk.

When next he looked, Strange was gone.

**xXx**

Valeria sat down to eat, then with a faint hissing whine the stepping disk swirled behind her. "Looked good," Illyana commented. "Mm, smells good too. What is it?"

"Goulash," Valeria said shortly. "Help yourself."

Illyana settled opposite Valeria. "So what do you think of our ninja friend?" she asked.

"Probably shouldn't discuss it here," Valeria said, glancing around meaningfully.

"Oh, yeah, whatever," Illyana said. "You were talking to her for like ten minutes or so."

Valeria sighed. "It really isn't polite to scry on people," she said.

"Oh yeah," Illyana said, a distant look in her eyes. "I keep forgetting." She shrugged and dug into her supper.

"So you caught the discussion on the ninja?" Valeria asked after a quiet moment.

"Sure did," Illyana said. "That's something else."

"Indeed," Valeria said with a nod. "Tell me something. Would you say that after that kind of sacrificing of what makes you human, by sheer biology you are still counted human?"

"What do you mean?" Illyana asked around a mouth full of food.

"If you kill a ninja," Valeria said, her face troubled, "does that mean you kill a human?"

Illyana's chewing slowed, and she leaned back in her chair. "Hm. What do _you_ think?" she asked.

"Well, I imagine they could still reproduce," Valeria said, looking down at her plate, "so they're the same species. They started out human, certainly. But if you trade your humanity for power," she said, brooding, "perhaps you trade in the very essence of what makes you a member of the human race." She lapsed into silence.

Illyana's eyes were cold. She swallowed her food. "Yeah," she said. "yeah maybe. Look, Valeria; it doesn't matter what they are. They're willing to trade their lives for ours. We're going to have to do some killing to stop them. Now you do what you need to do. If you need to make your pretty ideals conform to that necessity, then you do it however you need to. You can just dance however you want. The simple fact is that there's going to be killing. You need to grow up." She picked up her plate, standing, her eyes ice cold.

"Keep me posted on what you decide about who's human," she added, locking eyes with Valeria, who was a bit startled. "I'll be wanting to know whether your _judgement_ lets me pass the human test." Her feet twisted into fetlocks, and with a faint whining hiss a disk began sweeping up under her.

"Good goulash, by the way," she said. Then she was gone. Valeria blinked.

Valeria sat trembling for a moment as emotions seethed. "Grow up?" she muttered. "Grow _up_! From _her?_" Anger bloomed in Valeria's chest.

She stood up. "No," she said, closing her eyes and gesturing. "No, we're not doing this. I am a mature woman." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Just because Illyana believes something doesn't make it true." She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "She's just baiting me." She took another deep breath and let it out slowly. And at the bottom of that breath was the uncomfortable suspicion that Illyana might have a point.

"I need to talk to someone," Valeria said, shaking her head. She picked up the phone.

**xXx**

The elevator door opened, and Valeria stepped out and glanced around the office. Behind his bank of glowing monitors, Doug turned his chair and grinned at her. "Hello," he said. "Step into my office," he added, standing and walking over to a box of couches all facing each other. He hopped over the back of a couch and flopped back. "Sounds like you've had a hell of a day."

"And then some," Valeria sighed, climbing over the back of the couch opposite Doug and settling on it. She leaned back into the cushions and sighed.

Doug nodded.

"What do you see, Doug?" Valeria asked, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Roomie trouble," Doug said. "Illyana _is_ a brat, it's not your imagination." He smiled broadly. "I don't know about the rest. I've never seen you scared before."

She looked him in the eye. "I don't know how you do it."

"Insane," he said, tapping his temple. "I'm a madman. We're gifted by the gods by greater sight, weren't you told?" He smiled broadly.

"Seems I need to brush up on my mythology," she murmured. "You might want to be careful what you say about Illyana. She has a nasty habit of scrying on people."

Doug chuckled. "If she was sitting right here I'd call her a brat. If I talked to her tomorrow and found out someone had told her I called her a brat I'd have no qualms about fessing up. I still like her. But she's a brat."

"It's her… her chilling disregard for life that unsettles me. She doesn't seem to be fighting her darker nature. She seems to be reveling in it. If she wants to be the Queen of Hell, that's fine as long as she stays there." Valeria shook her head. "I can't be associated with that. We can't be friends if she is wallowing in cruelty. And because of me, Strange is teaching her magic." Valeria sighed. "I don't know," she said softly.

"She must have told you to toughen up," Doug said, nodding sagely. "Make your own decisions, Valeria," he added. "You spend more time with yourself than anyone else. Be sure that the one person you're stuck with is a person you like."

For a moment she just looked at him. "That's incredibly profound, Doug," she said.

He smiled. "Don't do anything you can't live with. If you do, your solitude will drive you mad." He tried to smile. "Hard earned wisdom, Valeria. I hope it does you some good."

"Well, Mister Ramsey, thank you for deepening my perspective today," she said, standing.

"Going so soon?" he said, a bit surprised. "I put some coffee on when you came in the door downstairs. It should be about done."

"Now that you mention it, it does seem a bit selfish to unload on you then run," Valeria said. "Talking to you sure does save a lot of explanation and beating around the bush, though."

He just smiled. "It's good coffee," he pointed out, sniffing.

She smiled. "Sure. I'd love some coffee."

Doug clambered over the back of the couch and strolled over to the coffee maker. "Just one other thing before social time," he said, his back to her. She waited.

He turned. "If Illyana ever crosses that line, get out," he said seriously. He paused. "If you wait that long."

She felt a faint chill.

He turned back to the coffee maker. "And with that out of the way, would you like a donut too?"

**xXx**

Valeria strolled down the street towards the apartment when she noticed a bag lady keeping pace with her without seeming to keep pace with her. She let out a deep breath. It could be a ninja. Or it could be a bag lady. She gritted her teeth. Intolerable. This paranoia was intolerable.

She turned and jogged across the street, headed for the bag lady. She looked both ways crossing the street; when she looked back the shopping cart was there but the bag lady was gone.

"I _knew_ it," Valeria gritted out, and she darted towards the cart to see a figure disappear around the corner of the other end of the ally; so fast! She whipped after.

Coming out the other side of the alley, she saw that there was no foot traffic at dusk on this street. But the ninja was gone. She looked around at the thousands of hiding places on this street alone, and she warily retreated.

She took a long, long look at the apartment. Then she went to the pay phone at the end of the street. She dialed her number.

**xXx**

_eep_

"Illyana, if you're home I recommend you go to a safer place to sleep. I have a bad feeling about the apartment. I'm going to sleep elsewhere tonight. You know how to find me if you need anything. Be careful,"

_eep_

In the shadowed apartment, dark shapes flitted through their living space, tracing sigils on the wall with their fingers, silent, almost shapeless, their eyes cold.

**xXx**

The bag lady shifted her clothes and hair and almost flowed up out of the window well below street level. Now she was a blue collar factory worker on the way home. Shoulders bowed, she headed down the street. She caught the bus to the pier, where she got off and walked to an isolated lot behind a warehouse.

"I know you're following me," she said in clear Japanese. "I won't take you to the Jonin."

Lock dropped from the shadows. "So he knows I'm coming for him."

"Does it matter?" the other ninja said with a shrug.

Lock drew her shortsword. The woman she faced slid nunchaku from their concealment. They squared off.

"I can't let you take word of my presence back," Lock said softly.

The other woman nodded curtly.

They whipped around the edges of the Tao, circling then whirling sideways towards each other, weapons whickering as they met in the center. Lock curved away from the attack path, as did the other woman ninja.

Lock breathed out, closing her eyes. The other woman fell, dead.

Lock cleaned and sheathed her blade, then took the fallen form of the other ninja and slipped off to a nearby park. She swiftly scaled a tree, carrying the body until she reached the upper branches. Then she pinned the body to the tree under the ribcage with the shortsword. She nodded to herself. It would be some time before the body was found, and the Hand would most likely find it first. But not before August eighth.

Lock dropped from the tree and vanished into the city. The first blows had been exchanged. The stage was set. She nodded to herself. For now, that would have to do.

Night fell.


	33. Contact

**xXx**

"So what's left, Sym?" asked the woman on the seat of the throne, elegantly perched on cloven hooves. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, she rested her elbows on her knees and laced her fingers together.

"We have about half of each ninja left," the huge dark demon grunted, and he took a puff on his foul cigar. "What they have to say is useless, mostly terrified babbling and the occasional 'Oh it hurts, it hurts,' nothing we haven't heard." He shrugged. "Do you want to keep them alive, Swordbearer?"

The Swordbearer sighed. "I can't think we'd improve the world by setting them loose in it," she said. "Use your discretion."

A slow smile showed all the translucent black teeth of the big demon. "Sym likes the sound of that."

"I suspected you might," she said, standing in a smooth motion. "If you don't mind, I have homework to do. Scat. I need an hour or two uninterrupted."

"Your whim is my reality, O Queen," the big demon said, bowing in supplication.

"You're a pip, Sym," the Swordbearer said. He grinned, and trotted off. The ground echoed his footfalls back. She hopped down and dragged out a few books, stacking them on a stone slab she was using as a table. She lightly sprang up on the table, lay full length, and pulled out the first book. "Wish I could use a highlighter on _these_ texts," she grumbled as she flopped open the first hoary tome of magic.

**xXx**

She raised her dripping face and looked in the mirror. Then she toweled her face vigorously. She let out a deep breath, then she stepped into the other room.

The guest room was dim. She breathed the air deeply, tasting the ancient spice and dust of Strange's house. Somehow, the place was a comfort right now. She sat on the thick cushion on the floor, listening to the old clock tick quietly to itself; it seemed slower than a normal clock, and it was paced just right for meditation. She settled into the old familiar posture, began running her mind through exercises she learned what seemed like an age ago.

"I must find my inner peace," she murmured, "if I am to mirror it in my outer world." She began breathing with discipline, focusing her body to reflect the stilling of her whirling thoughts. "I must become," she thought, "what I wish the world to be."

She began her meditation.

**xXx**

From the bridge in the park, you could see over the back fence into the industrial district. Between the park and the river was a square concrete pump station, for sewer overflow. It had been built decades ago, before the sewer system was as high tech as it had become. The building was probably abandoned.

Nonetheless, a tourist raised his opera glasses and looked at it for a long moment.

"Scuse me sir," said a policeman, strolling up to him.

"Yes?" said the tourist, blinking in surprise.

"This your wallet?" the policeman said, holding up a battered leather bifold.

"Yes! Yes it is! I'm Ebert Schwinn! I didn't even know I'd lost it." He slapped at his back pocket.

The policeman nodded. "You have to be more alert about these things. Come on with me and we'll sign some paperwork, and you can be on your way. This is New York. Can't be too careful, right?" he said with a winning smile.

Lock lay still in the tree and watched the ninja guide the tourist away. She released her influence on the tourist's mind. So. The ninja were making sure no one paid any special attention to the pump station. Every clue she had uncovered had led her here. Today was August seventh. Today or tomorrow, the Jonin would use the Hand ninja clan to abduct Illyana and Valeria for a Great Ceremony. Lock sighed. Enough ruining the day of poor tourists. The ninja would get suspicious, even if he didn't feel her touch. She rolled out of the tree and dropped.

The Jonin was near. She could feel him looking for her as she looked for him. Both were careful to be as oblique in their search as possible, neither wanted to give away their position. But she felt him, brooding, near.

She'd just have to be careful, then, wouldn't she.

**xXx**

"Quite a maze you have there," the thin man in the red coat said.

"Like it, do you?" said the creature hunched in the center of a vast loom.

"Not even a little," the thin man shrugged. "I have come because I need your help, Enitharmon."

The creature chuckled. "Good to see you again, Strange. Still pleased with my reshaping of your cloak?"

Strange shifted in his red coat. "It saves me considerable illusion and effort," he said. "It is a consummate masterpiece, as usual."

"Enough chit chat. I hear you're wanting to know what force has infiltrated Prime."

"That's the rumor," Strange said, looking around.

Enitharmon's realm was a vast perfectly ordered tangle of woven reality, and at the center the short purple creature was hunched in a loom complex, with weaving stranded out in all directions while he worked, pulling in raw materials of all sorts and crafting networks no mortal mind could grasp. Strange found a relatively clear spot and sat on the floor, careful not to touch anything.

Enitharmon clicked away like a mad spider. "It is not possible for you to get the first strike, or even a direct strike against the threat that faces your world," the weaver said. "You can never banish it, for it has a rightful place on your world. But you must keep the balance, it's your task to do, and this creature threatens that."

"Singular?" Strange asked.

"Yes," the weaver nodded. "One creature with hundreds of thousands of minions. Some are unwitting, some are greedy, some are frightened. They do not matter. Only the one. You cannot face it on Prime, for if it ever does manifest fully your dimension will have to cease to be Prime to accommodate it. If you confront it where it dwells in darkness, your power will wilt and its will wax strong until you are destroyed. A few seconds, tops," the weaver nodded to himself.

"But my situation is not without hope," Strange prodded.

The weaver glanced at him, his lavender beak's flesh upturned in a smile. "Of course not. You must follow your wisdom, as you have, and use agents, as your enemy does. Its plans can be defeated on Prime, and in these times that's all you can ask."

"What makes these times different than any other, old friend?" Strange smiled.

"I don't know what you mean," the weaver said, echoing Strange's smile. "Things are completely different, just like they have always been."

Strange's smile faded. "What must I do, Weaver?"

Enitharmon sighed. "You must go to Churanalathitaras."

"The Deep Oracle?" Strange breathed. "I have never been so far from Prime as that. How will I survive the… energies of those distant expanses?"

For a moment it seemed Enitharmon's eyes grew sad. "I will show you the way, wizard," he said, almost to himself.

**xXx**

"It's been an hour," Sym said from outside the ring of standing stones. "The boys thought you could use a little study break. Some song and dance or something."

"No thanks," Swordbearer said wryly. "I'm not sure they're ready to open for a show on Broadway."

"How's studies?" Sym asked, daring a step inside the standing stones. He leaned against one, taking a deep drag on his ever-burning cigar.

"Studies suck," the Swordbearer said, whirling to a sitting position and kicking the book shut with one dainty hoof. "Serving in heaven sucks, and Strange won't let me be the sole ruler of hell, if you know what I mean."

"Sym does, he really does," Sym said, nodding sympathetically. "Sym might be able to help."

"Really," Swordbearer said, doubt and amusement written in her features.

Sym shrugged. "What if Sym could find a trick that only the ruler of the realm could do and not some carpetbagging wizard? Even a minor one?"

Her eyes brightened. "Do you think you could?"

"Hey," he shrugged. "Sym was here before wizards claimed this realm. If there's something like that here, Sym will find it."

"Thanks for the show of support," Swordbearer said, not sure whether to be touched or worried.

Sym bowed. "Sym lives to serve."

**xXx**

Valeria's breathing was one with the tides, with the cosmic swell, with the city traffic, with the expanding and contracting of steel and concrete and asphalt in the shifting of the seasons. She was unfocused, unmoored, everywhere, nowhere.

As she breathed, she practiced the defenses against magic first, working them until they were fresh in her mind, in her spirit. She knew she was stalling, but this was good practice too, and practice she had been neglecting for a week or so. She refreshed the mystic wards within and upon her. They were simple things, defenses taught to her by two masters in time past. They would serve to slow a mystic assault, possibly long enough for her to escape, but that's all they were good for.

Now for her psionic barriers. She breathed more deeply, touched the power of her own mind; she was not a psion, but she had been taught techniques of deflecting some of their probes and assaults. She opened herself.

As her senses focused on the realm of ether and the mind, she felt a sweeping touch like a lighthouse beam, and for a moment it shivered past her. Then in a snap it returned.

_Who are you?_ came the simultaneous question.

Valeria swiftly dropped out of meditation, and sat shivering, breathing fast. What was _that_?

**xXx**

Sym squatted down next to the mutilated ninja. "Sym is back, did you miss Sym?" he grunted, and he laughed, a slow grating horrible sound. "Now tell us more about this Beast."

The ninja, half dead and delirious with blood loss, began to babble in Japanese. Sym paid close attention; the ideas in all languages moved through his mind, the details in none. Japanese was as good a language as any other that was not… native to his people.

"The Beast is powerful, it wishes to destroy the world, it gives us power, we are its servants, we must bring it into the world," the shredded man babbled. Sym reached down and gripped his face.

"How does the Swordbearer figure into this?" he rumbled.

"To bring the Beast—to bring it to our world—" the ninja said before he lapsed into unconsciousness from blood loss.

Sym grasped the dying ninja and sank his teeth into the wretch. A few minutes later, he knew a lot more about the Beast than the ninja had been given a chance to tell him. And he liked what he learned.

"Maybe Sym can summon this Beast to a meeting," Sym muttered. "Maybe this Beast and Sym have goals in common." His eyes narrowed. "Maybe the time has come for Sym to get underspace all to Sym's self."

He eyed the other ninja and a slow smile crept across his bloody features. "You'll do," he said, and he gripped the ninja and dragged him deeper into underspace.

**xXx**

Valeria stepped out of Strange's house, unable to shake the sense of being observed. This was a different feeling than she got from the ninja, though. She sensed none of the malevolence that radiated from them. She had felt it since she had meditated and, what? Made contact? Brushed someone else? She shook her head, unsure of what had happened or what it could mean. She trotted down the steps to the sidewalk and started strolling towards her apartment.

Around the corner and two blocks down, a man tottered to a lamp post and leaned against it, breathing heavily. He was close now to the mind he had felt in his meditation, the incredible strong pure mind that had, just for a moment, touched into the psi plane. He had never felt a mind like that.

He leaned back against the post, freely sweating. He closed his eyes for a moment. These days, he really should stay inside one of his few remaining safehouses and not venture out. But the lure of this mind… he shook his head. Incredible. Breathtaking potential. She even had rudimentary psi shields that protected her from casual scanning. That alone was intriguing.

And she should be coming around the corner any minute now.

He tugged off his baseball cap and rubbed his bald scalp briefly, then put his hat back on and stood looking down the street. She would round the corner any minute now and he would know who he was dealing with. If nothing else, he'd like to introduce himself…

A mind stirred, briefly, a mind that he had not detected before it moved. He froze.

Too late, his reaction was too late. A small dart whipped out from a blow gun and stung into his tear duct, delivering its venom almost instantaneously. The man who had fired it put the tube back under his arm and relaxed on the steps while a noose whipped down from the tree over the drugged man, looped around his arms and chest, and hauled him up with unnatural swiftness.

Valeria rounded the corner and saw nothing as the ninja spirited their prize away.


	34. Control

**xXx**

Sym brushed his hands against each other as the last of the ninja's blood drained into the Nether Pool at the end of the underspace. "Come on, little one," he said to the dead ninja, "summon your master. Beast! I call upon you!" Then Sym, a fairly patient creature when the situation demanded it, squatted by the pool and waited under the burning sky. His thick tail very slowly lashed in anticipation.

After a time that could have been seconds or weeks but was more likely hours, there was a stirring in the dark face of the lake; this was more than a lake, it was a portal that opened to deeper realms than underspace, a portal best left locked.

A shadow shifted on the other side, and Sym thought he could almost make out forms. "Are you this ninja's master?" he asked.

**_I AM THE BEAST_** rumbled a reply that might have knocked Sym down had the creature been in the same dimension.

"Sym hears that the ninja are trying to get you up on Prime with them to destroy the world," Sym said casually, puffing on his cigar.

**_I WILL DESTROY THEIR WORLD_** the voice vibrated the stone, vibrated the air, **_I WILL CAST IT INTO DARKNESS AND DEVOUR ITS LIGHT_**

****"Sym can get you up to Prime," Sym said, "Sym doesn't care what you do to Prime as long as you leave Sym ruler of underspace. You must destroy the Swordbearer."

**_THIS PALE SHADOW IS NOTHING_** came the chest rattling expression of the Beast. **_THE SWORDBEARER IS NOTHING ALL WILL BE CAST INTO FLAME AND DARKNESS AND BITTER COLD_**

****"Sounds to Sym," the demon said, grinning and chomping the butt of his cigar, "like we have a deal."

**xXx**

"From here the city looks so peaceful and beautiful," Valeria murmured to herself from where she perched on a skyscraper downtown. She sighed. Safe enough up here. Her mind wandered over the mortals she knew. "How do you do it?" she breathed. No place they could run. Strange could always escape, if he had to; Illyana had her underspace limbo, Valeria could fly. But what about Doug? The secretaries and executives and other staff of the building upon which she sat? The cab drivers, tooling around in their tiny yellow dots down below? When danger threatened, how did they stand it?

"Life is so random," she said distantly, her eyes roving the city, her incredibly sharp sight slipping through windows and seeing those who knew they were unobserved; picking out facial expressions on pedestrians on the streets over a hundred stories below. "At any moment," she murmured, snapping her fingers. A car swerves out of its path. Drug dealers get in a gunfight. Cancer. She shook her head and sighed. Ninja. You never can tell.

She looked down at her own hands. "Am I ready to shed blood?" she whispered to herself. "Am I ready to kill those that pursue me? Or do I risk the lives of everyone around me by letting them live?" She bowed her head. "Are their lives worth sparing? Are they beyond reform, now that they have chosen their path?"

The answer haunted her. She looked past it, kept looking.

"Oh, Strange," she murmured. "You picked the wrong time to leave the dimension. I need you for this." She shook her head, envisioned the saturnine wisdom of the sorcerer's face. She listened to his voice, to see what he would do. In her imagination, he was silent. Would Strange kill them?

"Maybe you could come up with another way," she murmured, "but I'm not you and I'm fresh out of ideas." She took a deep breath, and hardened herself.

"They follow the path of death," she said to herself. She nodded curtly. "If the choice is between giving death and receiving it, I choose to give it to them. I have little choice."

Something inside her quivered at the ramifications of her choice. She gazed up into the afternoon sun.

"Forgive me," she whispered.

**xXx**

Arrhythmic thudding drumbeats roused him from his swoon. The bald man blinked once before his heavy eyelids slid down, too heavy to lift. The room was viscous with shadow, slithering dark. He tried to focus his thoughts, but he was immersed in cloying incense that scattered his thoughts, twisted his reason. He felt tiny threads of pain shoot through him, unpredictable, startling. His mind felt tender; thinking was pain. The drumbeats throbbing around him were impossible to fathom, there was no rhythm to grasp. His pulse stirred in an off kilter pattern. He struggled to move and barely twitched.

_This is the veil of life, the veil of pain_, came a voice from his past.

"Jonin!" he gasped.

_We meet again, Charles Xavier_, the silent speech of the voice said. _You have come into my power._

Xavier struggled to gather his thoughts, to bring his formidable mental power to bear, to find and shut down the Jonin while he still had a shred of power left. But he could not focus, could not push past the peculiar torture to bring his thoughts to coherence. He gasped wetly, thrilling with poisonous adrenaline and unable to act.

_You come from one place, move through life, go to another place. But here all is confusion. There is no past. There is no future. You must deal with the now. And in the now the only relief you will find is in capturing her—_flash, an image of Valeria, he suddenly knew her name; an image of the one he had been waiting to meet—_her who you touched, you must bring her to us._

"I will not!" gasped Xavier as the pain shifted and raced in circles around the bones of his left hand.

Laughter surrounded him like dry leaves in an autumn wind. He began to struggle to open his eyes.

_You will, Charles Xavier. But please. Let us speak silently._

He managed to force one eye open, and he saw that he was naked on a slab, with a dozen long needles in his chi meridians, sigils painted on his flesh, half lost in the haze that curled and drifted around him from the glowing points of incense. Silver threads were tied to the head of each needle, like marionette strings, and they swooped through the darkness to a shadowed man's hand.

"I will not submit," Xavier gritted out.

The Jonin's smile could be felt. _This is the veil of life, the veil of pain,_ he whispered without speaking.

Xavier's head thudded back on the stone slab as he fought with all his might; he had so little left to fight with…

**xXx**

The demon snarled and snapped at Sym as he put his back into it and pushed it into the lake. It's hind leg slapped down in the water, and its snarl abruptly shifted to a mewling yelp. Sym gave it one last shove, and the demon lost its footing on the slick shore and flailed out into the lake. It howled, desperate and alarmed, and Sym stood looking at the lake, pleased with himself.

The demon's howling abruptly shifted to a scream as something moved in the lake. The demon was yanked deep enough so only it's screaming face was above the surface. It choked, jaws working, eyes desperate.

**_UNTIL I REGAIN MY FORM THIS WILL DO_** the demon's face whispered, rocking the foundation of the lake. The demon crawled out, pitch black as though painted with oil.

The Swordbearer cleared the ridge. "Sym!" she shouted. "What are you doing to my demon?" She planted her fists on her hips and glared at the tall dark demon, her thin tail lashing.

"Sym likes your new tail, it's fetching," he grinned.

"Answer the question or burn, demon," she growled.

He gestured at the tarry black demon hunched at his side. "Sym was doing what you asked," he said. "You know if you teleport demons out of underspace, they die, right?" he said. He clamped his cigar in his teeth. "Sym bonded this demon to underspace. You can take this demon with you to fight in Prime and he will be able to fight even away from underspace." Sym grinned, very proud of himself. "No one else but you can do that, Swordbearer."

"Oh," she said, hesitating for a moment. "Oh, good," she said, brightening. "Very good," she beamed, upon reflecting. Then her expression darkened again. "It doesn't feel like it's bonded to my realm."

Sym shrugged. "Had to use old demon magic trick. Had to coat it with portalwaters. It has to cure into new hide for the demon. Until then it will feel a little strange."

Swordbearer looked at the ground beneath the demon's feet. The ground was cracking, shriveling. "Seems a bit more… powerful, too," she said.

"Of course," Sym said with a grin. "Sym juiced it up a little for you, since this one is not expendable. Worth any ten other underspace demons."

Swordbearer smiled, her mind working the possibilitites. "Thanks, Sym. Next time I'm in a battle I'll have to try this fella out!"

"Good," Sym said with a grin. She turned to go, and he narrowed his eyes.

You do that.

**xXx**

The chanting started. Ninja in the darkness, in a circle around some kind of platform, chanting ancient and mysterious words over and over. Xavier trembled, not sure if he was sweating or not. Exquisitely sharp specific pain wandered under his sternum, down ribs and up again, and the cloying incense was the only air he could remember. He struggled, his muscles twitching, whimpering slightly.

The Jonin broke the pattern he had endlessly repeated in the months that Xavier had been here, the years. But there was no past. There was no future. There was only now. And the only way to find relief—

Xavier struggled to raise his defenses, the meditations and barriers he had meticulously erected over the years. But his breathing was not his own to control, the flow of blood and concentration in his body and brain was disrupted, and he could not properly—he could not properly do anything. He lay gasping, desperate, piteously flinging his will against the inexorable command of the Jonin.

_Why do you fight me?_ the Jonin whispered into his mind. _Your students, slain. Your Institute, life's work, in shambles. Your power so easily reduced to nothing. All those you crafted so carefully, turning on you. Emptiness and nothingness wait for you in the world you try so desperately to reclaim. But with us, Xavier. With us you will have greatness. You will be able to do what no other has done in the history of humanity. You will help us as we usher in a new age. THAT is to be your greatness, Xavier. The ritual is begun. Bring us—_the girl—_and all of this suffering will end._

Xavier shuddered, struggling to speak. "I will not submit," Xavier managed, "because you are… evil."

_So now you are pure? That is not what I recall from our time together at the Institute,_ the Jonin smiled in the darkness.

"But I," Xavier gasped, "I would never destroy the world. I won't be part of this."

The Jonin's smile faded. _Really._

Xavier struggled to breathe.

_The girl will not be killed. She will transcend herself. You must bring her, docile, to the summoning ring and you will receive a swift, painless death._

"No," Xavier huffed, fighting for precious air in the thick fog of incense, his lungs not drawing properly.

_We shall see. This is the veil of life, the veil of pain. You come from one place, move through life, go to another place. Here all is confusion. There is no past. There is no future. You must deal with the now. And in the now the only relief you will find…_

Xavier tried to scream and failed.

**xXx**

Lock lay on her back in the trees not far from the pump house. Her eyes were squeezed shut, tears seeping from their edges. Oh, Xavier. How did you get pulled into this?

She felt his pain, his agony, the slow burn of his will consumed in the dark magics of the ninja. His will was fierce and strong, but it could not withstand… what was happening in the concrete building right now.

Again half a dozen rescue plans whirled through her mind, but each and every one of them was pure suicide. Alone she could not save Xavier. None of her allies could get here in time, and even if they did, they could do nothing against what lurked in that building. If she tried to shore up his will, the Jonin would send ninja who would, no question, find and kill her while she was distracted.

One more day, Xavier. Hold out one more day. Silent tears rolled down her face. She knew that it was impossible.

So she lay at the end of the world, desperately trying to think of a plan to prevent its destruction.

**xXx**

Strange blinked, struggling to rise. Enitharmon put a restraining hand on his forearm. "Rest, wizard. You've been through an ordeal."

Strange felt blood seep in the marrow of his bones, his flesh limp and torn at a cellular level. He gasped to breathe.

_you will remember when the time is right_ echoed a memory—

Standing on the edge of the Oracle, a presence surrounding him, each mote seeming to contain as much energy as his dimension, where mortals cannot go—

Her voice so gentle; _you will remember when the time is right_—

Darkness, tearing. Strange fought to breathe.

"Did you discover what you were after?" Enitharmon asked as he began the laborious mystical task of unweaving Strange from the pattern that had taken some part of him deep enough for a few words with the Oracle and kept him sane and living.

"I don't know," Strange managed, blood freely flowing from his eyes, nose, mouth, ears. "I don't know what I learned." He managed a cough.

"That's the way of the Oracle," the weaver said with a solemn nod. "Now what will you do?"

"I have been away from Prime too long," Strange managed. "I must leave at once. I sense danger, great danger. The spirits of Earth call to me. I must answer."

"You will die before you escape my realm," the weaver said. "You must stay until you have healed."

"A little sleep, a little food," Strange murmured.

Enitharmon half smiled. "I must get you healthy enough to escape my realm, Strange. I rather like you and would not want to have to pluck your flesh sack out of the fabric should you die."

"Enitharmon," Strange said, fixing the weaver in a bloody gaze, "You're good to me." The wizard passed out.

The weaver sighed, pulled a blanket over the unconscious wizard, and smiled to himself. "You're worth it," he said softly to himself. He cocked his head and listened for a moment, and his expression grew dark. "An evil wind from Prime," he murmured to himself. He shook his head. "Heal up fast, Strange. They have need of you."

He climbed back into his alien loom, and the universe continued to unfold.


	35. Last Ditch

**xXx**

Valeria stirred, muttering and shifting. The most horrible dream… She remembered drumming, all out of synch, and whispering and insanity in the dark, the most dank foul smell. She shrugged, blinking sleep out of her eyes, yawning, stretching.

She looked down, startled. She was drifting in the breeze, fifty feet above the city street, dressed in her panties and a tee shirt. She blinked, scrubbed at her eyes. "Never flown in my sleep before," she murmured to herself.

A power clamped down on her, not leaving her sense enough to scream; she struggled wildly, but the attack was too fierce, too sudden, and it tasted of desperation. Her mind writhed under the iron grip then grew still; she was no longer her own.

A few minutes later, she drifted down into the park, towards the concrete building over its back fence. Her eyes were empty and terrible, her features a writ of pain, absent as her body slid silently through the air towards captivity.

Another woman stood on a rise not far away, her face contorted by frustration, her fists opening and closing. The ninja woman Lock desperately turned the situation over in her mind, trying to figure out how she could attempt to save Valeria without committing suicide.

No ideas came to her.

Valeria floated to the door, and it opened to admit her. She disappeared inside. Lock settled with her back to a tree, deep in thought, wondering how to proceed. Her head drooped as she became one with her surroundings, working through plan after plan. There was no one she could call who would arrive in time to stop what was happening inside that building, and even if one or more of her allies could arrive in time, they could do little against the ninja gathered there. Against their captive telepath. Against the Jonin.

So Lock waited for an idea or a shift in the situation to present itself. Less than an hour later, that's exactly what happened.

A faint whine and a hiss, and a teleportation stepping disk slid up from the ground, leaving a reddish blonde sorceress in its wake.

"Lock?" Illyana said uncertainly. "I can't scry on Valeria. Do you know where she is?"

Lock was immediately on her feet. "I feared they had somehow captured you as well," she said, touching Illyana's shoulder as though to convince herself the young woman was really standing there. "As long as they only have one of you, perhaps their Great Ceremony will fail."

"I don't mean to be captured," Illyana said with an arch of her eyebrow. Then her eyes widened in alarm.

Lock stood with her back to the sorceress. "I can assure that they only get one of you," she said softly.

In that tense moment, Lock thumbed her slim knife loose in its scabbard, and Illyana braced to teleport.

Lock sighed, and turned to look into Illyana's eye. "I am not like them. You do not deserve death for doing nothing more than attracting their attention. The way of life is riskier than the way of death, but the rewards can be much greater. I am committed to the way of life. Please excuse my lapse, the stress is getting to me."

"Sure, no problem," Illyana said warily. "So what's the plan? Valeria is in that building?"

"Yes," Lock nodded. "The Jonin has captured a powerful telepath and bent him to the will of the ninja. He summoned Valeria. When he calls," she shrugged, "there's little any mortal can do to resist."

"Whoah," Illyana said uncertainly. "So what chance do we have? The ninja alone were enough, don't you think?"

Lock nodded. "The way of the ninja is the way of overwhelming odds, surprise attacks, and cheating. Expect nothing less. I have formed a plan."

"Let's hear it," Illyana said, shifting uncomfortably and looking at the concrete square of the building.

Lock nodded. "You take out part of the wall on two sides of the building. You move in one side, I'll come in the other. Whatever happens, don't be distracted. Do your part, teleport Valeria out, then you two just stay in your underspace for a while. Okay?"

"What about you?" Illyana asked in a small voice.

"Today," Lock said, her eyes hard, "I will face the way of the ninja. Don't worry about me. And a word of advice. If we fail… don't let them take you alive." Her eyes said much that her voice didn't, and Illyana nodded meekly.

They moved away from each other.

**xXx**

The Jonin presided over the Great Ceremony as he had been destined to do since he was born under the bloody fingernail of new moon so long ago. The time was right. The chanting was in a holding pattern, waiting for the inevitable interruption without which the ceremony would fail. Two keys, the prophecy had said, two keys would be needed to unlock the barriers between the Beast and the world.

One floated before him in a chalked circle, slowly spinning, unconscious, her arms gripping her shoulders and her head lolling to the side. She would be the perfect vessel for the Beast to inhabit.

Silver threads almost too fine to see or feel were collected in the Jonin's palm. Each thread traced through the air to wrap around the head of a needle, a dozen needles in the chi meridians of Charles Xavier. Xavier lay flat, his head rolled to the side, bleeding from his nose and mouth and eyes. He was dying. The Jonin smiled. In a few minutes, that wouldn't matter; not to Xavier, not to anyone else.

The Beast would touch the earth and all life would swirl to dust in a maelstrom of flame and darkness.

Right on schedule, two portions of wall flared and vanished.

_Allow them in,_ the Jonin said to his ninja in the silent speech. Xavier feebly struggled against the Jonin's domination; was he trying to warn them? To free Valeria? The Jonin contemptuously sent his will through the threads, into Xavier's body, and the telepath subsided once again.

The two women attacked as one, leaping through the holes on opposite sides of the building. The ninja fell back, forming a ring around Valeria and the chanters.

The Jonin watched Lock, felt the indecision; she had two objectives as she surveyed the situation the instant she arrived. To kill the Jonin; that was her purpose initially and she would not abandon it until one of them was dead. But there lay Xavier; could she abandon him to his fate?  
His smile widened as she moved. She would choose the path of life.

And she would die.

She sprang to get around the ninja, and they moved to intercept her. Blades whickered around her, slashing her clothes to ribbons as she wildly gyrated, an elemental expression of painfully refined death that transcended violence and instead became a dance. Distance and time were acute as she spun into the cloying stench of decay and incense that flowed out of the breached wall. Her every motion was measured by the breadth of a hair as the ninja moved to stop her, to kill her. She fought for more than life; she sought to pass through their wall.

Her shortsword moved faster than the eye could follow, snipping through throats and arteries and pressure points as she tensed and relaxed, whirring into the teeming mass of dark cloth, catching lethal strikes a quarter inch from the killing point, taking a dozen cuts in the first seconds and managing to take them in meat and bone instead of in the sensitive places, the weak flesh that would stop the whole body if it were damaged.

She moved like a spirit bereft of flesh, then in one shimmering perfect moment she spun clear, within sword's reach of the Jonin, who remained seated, watching her.

_If you try to free him he will die,_ the Jonin thought to her in that moment.

Her eyes narrowed as she moved. _Maybe_, she thought, _maybe._

In a single clear ringing note higher than the human ear could detect, the silver strands leading to the Jonin's hand separated as her unnaturally sharp sword slid through space they occupied.

Xavier clenched, locked in a scream his body lacked the strength to make audible.

Illyana stared at Valeria, who drifted oblivious to the battle. The ninja stood between Illyana and Valeria; the young woman struggled to call a stepping disc, but there were wards and ancient sigils she had no knowledge of; they locked the building within its own space.

Illyana would have to enter the building to make this work. She was trembling.

Her breath came short and shallow as Lock vanished into the mass of ninja, all a swirling morass of shadow punctuated by gurgles and puffs of blood that whipped up into the air. Her hand flexed, and her Soulsword was called from its resting place into her hand. She managed a thin scream as she charged into the building.

In that moment, the Jonin snapped both hands shut. The keys. They were within his grasp.

The time had come.

The world would end.

Illyana lashed out wildly at the ninja, who did not counter-attack. They instead focused on her, on deflecting her. Illyana felt suddenly dizzy in the stench of incense, with the alien buzzing of the ninja chanting ringing in her skull as though of all those in the world only she could hear it; in the background, laughing. Could that man seated on the cushion be the Jonin?

She struggled to teleport Valeria, but she could not focus on that pillar, she could not grasp what was within the simple chalk circle on the floor. Then the ninja surrounded her as Lock whirled up by the Jonin.

Illyana felt suddenly cold, vulnerable. A thought rang through her mind; summon aid! This battle was beyond her! And almost in a daze, she reached through time and space, into her realm, for the one demon who could join her. In a flash, the disc appeared—

All hell broke loose. She didn't remember the demon being so _huge_… then as she brought it, as the disc opened the creature _forced_ its way in, though all the world closed in on that moment, on that place, to stop it. There was a chest rattling cough that startled dust from the concrete walls.

Something was coming.

Illyana desperately tried to close her own portal, but it was too late. Something was coming through, and nothing she could do would stop it.

In that moment she realized she had been betrayed. She also realized that unless something changed dramatically in the next few seconds, it wouldn't matter any more.

The Jonin's thin cackle rose, twining with Illyana's scream.

The lock was breached. The Beast was summoned.

The Beast tore reality by the corrupting touch of its presence as it ripped its way clear of the stepping disk. Already its demon form was rippling, splintering. The thing that had masqueraded as her pet _had_ no form. But it was here. It was too late. Illyana fell on her back and scrabbled for the corner, shocked out of her senses, forgotten.

The creature bounded through the ninja, who let it pass, and then it sprang up to latch onto Valeria—

In that moment all became clear. The Beast needed a form, and the Jonin had found it one that was unstoppable—

Valeria struggled clear of Xavier's haze in time to catch a glimpse of what leaped at her, but it was too late to evade the mighty spring. It crashed into her with no sound, and she was forced to the ground by the _weight_ of the thing. It began to push through her defenses, casually and ruthlessly and inexorably.

**_I AM THE BEAST_** it Spoke, and some of the ninja gripped at their chests or heads, trying to contain the blood that flowed from them as the power of its Thought rolled out from it. **_I WILL BRING FLAME I WILL BRING DARKNESS I WILL BRING THE WINTER THAT NEVER ENDS I AM DESPAIR_**

****"No!" Lock screamed, her voice thin in her own ears. And the Jonin threw his head back in unholy joy; his life was complete, his destiny fulfilled. Death to him now would be an afterthought.

Lock caught a faint plea, as from a great distance, and she quickly glanced to see Xavier trying to reach for her. _Oh, I am dying_, he thought, and she dropped her weapon and knelt at his side. His spark of life, so weak…

_Live._ Her command to him was a whisper in the maelstrom of the Beast's malignance, but she felt Xavier grip it with his remaining strength. The will to live had been stamped out in him, almost entirely. She breathed on the embers that remained, and he fought to heed her call.

For a long moment Lock closed her eyes, heedless of her danger. The way of life… it was riskier.

The rewards were so much greater.

All the strength she had left flowed through a link she forged with Xavier, flowed into his mind, his will. She was completely vulnerable; one strike would slay her. But she focused on Xavier, on reviving him, on bringing him back to a world he could recognize after his long sojourn into darkness.

Xavier revived.

He lashed out.

Valeria pulled all of her self-hood, everything that made her who she was into her center to battle the dark force that was casually overwhelming her; this was worse than any rape could ever be, for this creature flowed into every part of what made her an individual. This creature was stealing her.

"I am a child of the sun!" she managed to gasp as the creature of darkness casually leaned its weight on her flagging defenses. Her strength was gone—

Then another strength came, she did not know from where. Suddenly she could feel her self again, she could feel the sun, and she drove into the darkness that was becoming her with all her might. It was as though she was rocketing to the surface of a deep, dark lake; she broke the surface, triumphantly who she was, startling the creature that clung to her.

"I deny your primal night," she hissed, eyes flaring. "It shall never return. I am a child of the sun. You cannot use me for death."

She locked with the Beast, it was pushed out to her skin. They struggled fiercely with minds, with bodies, with spirits; if any of her three defenses failed she would be utterly corrupted.

Illyana cowered in the corner, her eyes pouring blood as the shockwaves of evil rolled from the Beast and crashed over her. She was forgotten, her part was played.

The ninja surrounded Xavier and Lock; Lock revived just enough to blearily look up and see her death poise to end the contest. She managed a smile, her teeth pink from the blood in her mouth.

With a peculiar thudding sound, the Jonin's head rebounded from the wall behind his seat. His body slumped to the side, decapitated. The ninja spun.

One of their number tugged off her mask; the others were genuinely shocked.

Silent stood, her eyes riveting them to the ground, as she drew her other sai and spun the weapons. _Prepare yourselves for the First Rule_, she said in the silent speech. Then she was moving.

The tips of her sai touched the ninja as she whirled past them. She was one with the hopelessly chaotic fog of incense. The ninja whirled and slashed, but she was untouchable. Their training was sound, but they were out of their depth and their leader had been slain before their eyes by one the might of their clan had been unable to stop.

It was not battle. It was slaughter.

Lock swooned, consciousness slipping away from her as the poison from the ninja weapons and the shock of her dozens of wounds caught up with her.

Valeria was locked in a delicate balance of strength with the Beast, but she was wearing down too fast and it seemed inexhaustible. Desperate sips of air were all her tight torso could manage for breathing, and as she refused to bend she began to break.

Then a voice, in her mind, clear and sharp; _I am sorry we never met,_ the voice said with a touch of regret.

Power rushed into her; mortal, raw power that tasted of blood and the soul. She realized in that final moment that the entire life force of the man on the stone slab was surrounding her and lifting her up. She took his energy, focused it, and flared raw defiance into the shadow that sought to claim her.

For a shimmering second the Beast was blown clear, teetering on the edge of losing balance and falling backward. It took one step back, outside the circle—

Illyana screamed as she focused her entire will into a stepping disk that lashed into existence behind the Beast. In one last push, Valeria took a short step and pounded her mightiest blow into the thing of shadow. It lost its balance and its power, knocked back into the shimmering disk. Illyana slashed through a disk of her own.

Valeria collapsed, her chest wracked in dry sobs. Xavier sagged, his muscles relaxing, a faint smile on his face. Silent whipped her sais around once more.

The battle was over.


	36. The Moral of the Story

**xXx**

The Swordbearer, Illyana, dropped on the shore of the lake to see the Beast struggling in the surface, trying to escape the Deep Portal.

"You shall never pass into my realm again while I have the power to prevent it," snarled the Swordbearer. She hurled her Soulsword, and it arced then lashed down out of the sky with a rolling crash like thunder, smashing the Beast down through the portal and sealing the lake with a thick layer of mystic ice.

The Swordbearer staggered, then collapsed at the edge of the sealed lake, senseless.

**xXx**

Lock struggled to open her eyes. She saw Silent crouched over her, tossing away a syringe.

"We won?" she managed.

"Drink this," Silent said, her voice curt. She offered a curled leaf with a foul liquid on it. "For the rest of the poisons."

Lock managed to choke it down, then she struggled to sit up. She was bandaged in the dark cloth of the ninja's clothing, and another set of clothes was over her bandages. There were plenty of corpses willing to part with their gear. Silent glanced around and sniffed.

Xavier lay unmoving, and Lock couldn't immediately tell if he was dead or alive. Valeria was on her hands and knees, swaying as her exhausted body and spirit and mind trembled.

"I don't… know how to thank you…" Lock managed, smiling at Silent.

"Don't," Silent said with a shrug. "We both needed the Jonin dead. You captured his attention. You led me to the two keys and you did your part to stop the Beast." Her serious eyes lightened a shade. "Jonin dead. Beast banished. Hand scattered." Silent nodded to herself. "Job well done."

Silent stood, turned her back on the carnage, and took ten steps toward freedom. She was gone.

"I think that's your old woman from the market," Lock managed, her voice shaky.

"What… what just happened?" Valeria choked out.

"You're better off not knowing," Lock shrugged. "You can trust me on that or I can lay it out for you in all the detail I know."

"I think you're right," Valeria managed. "I don't really think I want to know. I've never felt evil like that before."

"Hopefully you never will again," Lock said quietly. She struggled to turn. "Xavier," she said, cupping her hand around the side of his face. "Xavier, are you alive?"

Lock quickly checked his vitals. "He's in a coma," she murmured. "These can't be helping." She carefully removed the needles. Then she started rubbing at the painted sigils on his flesh.

"We have no time for this," Valeria said, forcing herself to her feet. "Some of the ninja escaped. They will return soon. We are in no condition to face them."

Lock forced herself to her feet. "I'm not sure where I can take Xavier. He is out of safehouses."

Valeria touched his forehead tenderly. "I wish we could have met," she echoed softly, looking at his glazed and empty eyes. "I will take him and keep him safe. Do you think he will recover?"

"I don't know," Lock said honestly. "I don't know what happened there. I think he gave you everything he had, keeping nothing back. His mind is driven so far out of his body…" she shrugged. "I don't know."

Valeria nodded curtly. "I cannot thank you enough. You saved me, us, the world. Without you," she said, and there were no words to follow.

Lock smiled faintly and touched Xavier's head in parting. "His name is Charles Xavier," she told Valeria. Then she turned and walked away. She did not look back.

Valeria picked Xavier up as though he weighed nothing. "Well, Charles Xavier," she said, "let's get you to a place where we can wash those nasty sigils off."

Then the concrete building was empty except for flies and carnage and a smudged chalk circle.

**xXx**

Lock stood on the bridge with the other tourists, looking down into the river. "So what's the moral?" she asked herself softly. She pulled the bill on her ball cap down a little further over her bruised eyes. She watched the light dance on the shifting surface of the water as it flowed below.

"Morals are for those who live," she murmured. "Could it be that the cruelest of men may have their moment of greatness? Or perhaps no matter what sacrifice they make for a good cause, evil men always get punished?" She sighed, her body a pulsing mass of pain. "At least this time it doesn't fall to me to find you a place," she whispered as tears jostled in her throat and behind her eyes. "This time, you earned your refuge."

She turned and walked away into the hot morning through a veil of tears. "Thank you," she whispered with the last of her voice, thinking back to a room beneath a snowy chateau. "Thank you for vindicating me."

She vanished into the crowd as though she had never been.

**xXx**

For a long moment Valeria stood on the steps to Strange's house, gazing up into the flaring heat of the sun. "I am your child," she whispered to the sun, and she felt the last traces of darkness burn away inside her. She half smiled. "Strange, Strange, you just can't leave your dimension for ten minutes." She shook her head and hefted Xavier, then entered the mansion.

Ten minutes later Xavier was laid out in the guest room, unclothed, a towel over his waist. Valeria had a wash bowl and a wash cloth. She began delicately dabbing at the peculiar gummy paint the ninja used to draw the sigils on his flesh. "There's no call for these to be on you a moment longer," she murmured grimly to herself.

She heard the familiar sound of the stepping disk in the hallway. Illyana, pale and drawn, stumbled in and sat on a chair by Xavier. For a few minutes, she sat and watched as Valeria carefully wiped at the runes, smearing and then removing them. Then Illyana picked up a washcloth and dipped it in the bowl. She began dabbing Xavier's scalp, which was particularly crusted with the painted sigils.

"I've been thinking," Illyana said, her voice strained. Valeria continued her work without looking up. "I've been thinking about my future. About what we're doing here."

For a few more minutes they continued washing Xavier. Illyana cleared her throat.

"I never want to be… I want no part of that," she managed in a slightly shaky voice. "Evil, real evil is not pretty. I thought…" she stopped, cleared her throat, and wrung out her cloth. "I see that more clearly now."

"It has a taste all its own," Valeria said softly. Illyana met her eyes for the first time.

"Yes," Illyana said. "Yes. I think… I think I'm ready to trust Strange now. I will never be the Queen of Hell. There is a lot out there more evil than I will ever be. I just… I just never saw that before."

Valeria quickly looked down so Illyana would not see the tears in her eyes. She nodded.

They continued washing Xavier.

"So what do you think Strange will want us to do with him?" Illyana asked, nodding at Xavier.

"I have no idea," Valeria said, "though I can't imagine he'll object to us offering him refuge. Not after… after what Xavier here did." She almost laughed. "I'm content to let Strange be the one with the answers," she added.

"I am too," Illyana said, a new determination in the set of her features. "I think I'm ready to learn a better way."

"You'll be a hero yet," Valeria said, and that's all she could trust her voice to say.

Illyana smiled a bit forlornly. "Thank you… thank you for believing in me."

Valeria's eyes were brimming with tears as she looked up. "Thank you for making me right."

Outside, the sun began to set on the hottest day of the year.

**xXx**

"I'm staying here for the night," Valeria said as they finished eating sandwiches in the kitchen of Strange's house.

"Me too," Illyana nodded. She shivered. "Not quite ready to go back to the apartment. Brr." Illyana went upstairs shortly afterward, and Valeria put away the remains of the meal. She headed upstairs, and hesitated at the top of the steps.

"Just like old times," she said, touching the banister and remembering her confusion when she first arrived in this place. She shook her head, but decided to check on Strange's room before going to bed herself. Perhaps in looking at his space she could feel a bit closer to him. Right now that would be a comfort.

She opened the door, and gasped.

Strange lay unconscious on the floor by the bed.

"Doctor Strange," Valeria said, kneeling by him. Then she was up—kitchen—water—steps—back in one monumental gust of wind that whirled around the inside of the house like a pent-up ferret. She propped him up on her knee and fed him a sip of water.

He revived with a bit of a groan, blinked once. Valeria was appalled to see that the whites of his eyes were flaring red. It was a most unsettling effect.

"Valeria," he managed. "Good to see you again. I think I need some sleep." His head lolled to the side, and he was unconscious again. She hefted him and put him on his bed.

"Nothing that can't wait until tomorrow, Strange," she murmured, and she turned off the light.

**xXx**

He listened attentively to the entirety of the story the two young women presented, asking questions from time to time. It gave him much to think about.

"So it never fully manifested," Strange said.

"It never fully gained control over me," Valeria said with a nod. "If it had…" and words failed her. Strange sat back, nodding thoughtfully, matching up his clues and riddles.

'What did you find out?" Valeria asked.

"Well," Strange said slowly, clasping his slender hands together, "it sounds like this might be the threat I sensed. The Beast was well prepared to end life on this dimension one way or another. The ninja were already in this world, a part of it, and arranged to bring him through. Both the ninja and their Beast 'dwell in darkness.'"

"But," Valeria prodded.

Strange sat with a distant look in his eye for a moment. Then he shook himself slightly. "As Sorcerer Supreme you develop a keen sense of paranoia," he said with an apologetic smile. "Seems like that's the end of it."

"It will be if you help me seal that thing out of my dimension," Illyana said in a small voice.

"I will," Strange said. "But first… first I will see to Xavier. He sounds like a remarkable fellow."

"Would it be alright if we move back in for a few days? Until the dust settles?" Valeria asked with a glance at Illyana, who nodded.

"That would be fine," Strange said. "You can go and get what you'll need from the apartment. I'll tend to Xavier."

They went their separate ways. Strange quietly entered the room where Xavier lay senseless.

Strange sat by him, touched his face in four places, murmured to himself tones that would call to the lost. He closed his eyes and slipped his senses into the dark emptiness of Xavier's mind.

No one home. No forwarding address.

Strange sent a call out into the darkness. There were no barriers to reflect it.

Xavier would return when he was ready to find his way back. Strange nodded to himself. Then, for a long moment, he sat watching Xavier.

"Should have been me," he said softly. He clasped the senseless body's hand. "This burden should not have come to you." For a moment, the three days of sleep that Strange needed swirled up around him and made him dizzy, made the weight he bore shift and sway over him with its crushing mass. He was the defender of this dimension. "No," he whispered, closing his eyes. "My choice was correct and unlucky." He looked down at Xavier for another long moment. "Let us both hope the threat is ended," he murmured.

"Until you return," he said, and he began to cast his spell.

**xXx**

The Swordbearer and the Sorcerer Supreme stood by the edge of the gummy, cracked, foul ice over the Deep Portal. In the center of the ice block was a shining sword. The Swordbearer stamped her dainty hoof on the stone, and it chipped.

"I'm not sure this would hold much longer," she said quietly.

"It won't have to," Strange said, his eyes hard. He gestured, and the Soulsword tore up out of the ice and whirled through the air, ringing down into stone and swaying upright. The ice shattered—

Strange closed his hand into a fist, and the creature below the ice was halted.

"You no longer face mentalists and apprentices," Strange hissed in a language best left forgotten, one the Beast could not misunderstand. "You are not welcome here."

The stone began to ripple and creep towards the center of the lake, leaving concentric circles like the rings in a tree's flesh. The stone buckled and heaved as the creature below fought to enter the underspace to engage in real battle.

One impossibly long taloned appendage whipped clear. Strange hissed, narrowing his eyes, and gore exploded from the limb as its bone center grew rotating bone spurs, shredding flesh and mangling the arm. Strange gestured, and the arm shattered and was rammed down into the gap. The Deep Portal was sealed, the Beast driven back into the outer darkness. Strange turned to face his apprentice, his eyes bright and sweat beading on his face.

"He could not have found you unaided," Strange said.

"Sym," the Swordbearer said, her eyes cold. "He betrayed me."

"Do you want me to deal with him as well?" Strange asked.

"No," the Swordbearer said, shaking her head. "The Beast can be forgiven. I was none of his business. But my own demon…" She gritted her teeth. "I need to review the command structure with him. It's best if they associate rulership with me directly, no offense."

"None taken," Strange said with a shrug. "If you'll excuse me, I have about three days of sleep waiting for me."

"Thank you, Master," she said, every word sincere. She pulled her Soulsword from the stone and looked along its edge. There was a tint to the metal now, and the edge seemed sharper than ever. "I don't know how much longer I could have held that creature back."

He smiled at her briefly, and was gone.

The Swordbearer walked slowly out on the rings of stone where the Deep Portal once was. She glanced around, then buried the point of her Soulsword in the stone and rubbed her hands together. She focused, concentrated, sensed.

Sweat rolled down her face as she used a part of her magic that was new and alien to her. But after time, she dared to open her eyes.

In the center of the rings rose a single dandelion. In a deliberate motion, it opened up, its yellow a stark contrast to the barren stone around it.

"It's a start," the Swordbearer said with a smile.

**xXx**

Valeria effortlessly carried the seven foot block of crystal down the hall into the Sanctum Sanctorum. She put it on the stand by the far wall as Strange had instructed her to. Then she stepped back and looked at Xavier, embedded in the crystal, protected until he began to awaken of his own accord.

"Sleep well," she said, touching the crystal. "Dream only of pure things."

"Purely _good _things," Strange said from the doorway behind her. He joined her by the crystal. "He will not age, nor be possessed, nor suffer any harm until he awakens," Strange said. He nodded to himself. "This will have to do until he's ready to return under his own power."

"Did you try to bring him back?" Valeria said.

"I've done that before," Strange said with a shrug. "Chased down those driven from their bodies and restored them. Until they choose to return, however, there's an empty space in them that can never be filled." He sighed. "Better that Xavier find his own way back."

"Sounds almost like the voice of experience," Valeria said, looking at him directly.

"It does, doesn't it," Strange said with a faint smile. "All of us need to find our way back one way or another. We all leave when it gets to be too much," he said, touching the crystal and looking at the peacefully sleeping body within. "There's no shame in that. I pity those who never find their balance again."

Valeria watched him steadily for a moment. "Get some rest, Doctor," she said.

He smiled. "Good advice," he said. "I'll see you again when I wake up. D'you suppose there's a Planetary article in all this?" he asked.

"How about one on mind over matter techniques and stealth technology developed hundreds of years ago?" Valeria said dryly.

"Just as soon as I find someone to write it," Strange smiled.

"I met a woman named Lock who might be able to help you," Valeria said.

With a click, the Sanctum Sanctorum sealed behind them, protecting everything within.


	37. Manhunt

**xXx**

"You wanted to see me?" Creed said, hulking over Fury's desk.

"Siddown," Fury said. "I've got some news for you. The higher ups made their final decision on the next recipient of the adamantium grafting."

Creed sat down, the small chair creaking and shifting under his weight. His face was blank; too many emotions were behind it for it to reflect only one.

Fury looked him right in the eye. "Not you."

Creed gripped the desk. "Come again?"

"Not you," Fury said. "Just thought you'd want to know. Didn't want to keep you in suspense."

"Not… me…" Creed said, his claws digging deep into the heavy desk.

"You are too unpredictable," Fury said. "Every time things don't go your way, you end up AWOL. Your record and your potential do more to keep you here at the Project than your performance does. You're useful as backup. You are just too damned squirrelly to be trusted as a regular field agent. In fact, there is a theory among some of your supervisors that you're just with the Project until you get this upgrade then you plan to defect."

"Not… me…" Creed said.

"On the bright side," Fury said, "your request for leave is granted. You have a month."

"What if I prove myself?" Creed rumbled, a whine in his voice.

"We just don't have enough adamantium to do two agents," Fury said. "Sorry, Creed, I did all I could. You haven't done yourself any favors, you know."

"What if I got you some," Creed growled. "What if I bring you Logan?"

"Yeah," Fury sighed. "I'll hold my breath. Dismissed, Creed."

Creed slowly stood up to his full height, glowering down at Fury.

"A month," he said.

"A month," Fury agreed.

"I'll be back in a month," Creed rumbled. He turned and left. The door slid shut behind him.

The office was silent for a moment.

The side door to the conference room opened. A tall man shouldered in and stood by the desk.

"Do you want me to follow him, sir?" the big ugly man said.

"No, Garret," Fury said. "He's a predator." He leaned back in his chair, clamping his cigar in his teeth. "Let him hunt."

**xXx**

"Your calling card," the slim executive said. "It was… distinctive."

"So is my proposal," the huge man said to him, his voice deep and slow and marked with a Russian cadence.

"Well then," the executive said, sitting at the conference table, "Let's hear it."

"As you know by now, Mr. Stark, I am skilled at obtaining that which is difficult to obtain," the tall dark man said. "I am a hunter, by nature and by trade."

"Indeed," Stark said. "I've been looking for a copy of the original blueprints for a Model T for years."

"I hope my modest gift has done more than grant me audience," the tall man said. "I hope it has also predisposed you to my proposal."

"Mr. Sergei Kravinoff," Stark read from the card that had been attached to the tube with the blueprints. "You have my undivided attention."

"I ask that you allow one of your employees the freedom to consider a sporting challenge," Kravinoff said, smiling. His teeth were square, sharp, too white. His face was broad, his forehead tall, his eyes deep. His salt-and-pepper beard was neatly trimmed, and his vast muscled body was complimented by a tailored suit.

"What sort of challenge?"

"If he declines," Kravinoff said, tilting his head, "I will not pursue it further. However, I wish to invite him to a sporting event."

"Out with it, Kravinoff, I'm a busy man."

The big Russian leaned forward. "I wish to hunt him." Kravinoff leaned back. "I have, through my sources, obtained the _cure_ for Tymaz Nine, something I believe he will risk his life for. If he defeats me, I will give him the cure. If I defeat him, his life is forfeit."

"Wow," Stark said.

Kravinoff nodded. "He is both more and less than either animal or man; he combines the pleasure of hunting each. I wish to try my skills against him. No guns, just what primitive traps and devices I can fashion and simple hand weapons."

"You are a big guy, granted," Stark said, "but if you go up against Logan in hand to hand," he shook his head, "that's just a bad idea, Mr. Kravinoff."

"Please allow me to take the risk. I come to you first because if I am successful, he will no longer be able to act on your behalf, for he will be dead."

"Coming to me first was smart. If I agree to this harebrained scheme, I can't punish you if you win. I don't like your idea one bit, but you've earned the right to run it by Logan. I'll call him in," he said, gesturing to one of his aids, who left the room at once.

"How did you find out about Logan, anyway?" Stark asked, eyeing Kravinoff.

The big man smiled. "I discovered him in my search for the cure for Tymaz Nine, along with others," Kravinoff said. "He intrigued me. He is mysterious, but he has led an illustrious life."

The door opened, and Logan walked in. "You called for me, Mr. Stark," he said.

Immediately, he and Kravinoff were eyeing each other; Stark thought he could detect flexing under their skin, he glanced at Logan and saw him sniff the air. He sighed.

"I have the feeling I'm going to regret this," he said. "Mr. Logan, Mr. Kravinoff. Kravinoff wants to hunt you, Logan, and if you survive the hunt he's willing to give you the cure to Tymaz Nine."

"The _cure_?" Logan said. He looked sharply at Kravinoff.

"It has been tested," Kravinoff said.

"Oh, yeah?" Logan said. "On who?"

"Me," Kravinoff said gravely. "We will be on an island. No guns, no outside access. Only hand weapons and what can be found or made on the island, that is all. I will have arranged terrain to my advantage, but that will serve to even things, as you have... natural advantages."

"To the death?" Logan said.

Kravinoff solemnly nodded.

"Then how do I get the cure, if I kill you?"

"At dawn, twenty four hours after we arrive, a call will be placed to a fax machine in the island's interior. The fax machine will have a cellular connection to a satellite network, and a portable energy generator. The fax will come in with instructions for reaching the contact who will supply the cure. I swear that it is not a trick. It is in my best interests to be honest with you. Please trust that the hunt is much more critical to me than the cure for Tymaz Nine. If you defeat me, I will bear you no ill will."

"That's a hell of a risk," Stark said.

"That's worth it ta me," Logan said, his voice hoarse. He stared at Kravinoff. "As you knew it would be."

Kravinoff nodded. "I have studied you, Mr. Logan. I did not want to kidnap you, or hunt you in New York. No, you deserve better. You are fascinating to me. I want to compete with you for the only prize that's worth anything," he said, his eyes gleaming, his nostrils flared.

"Life," growled Logan.

Kravinoff nodded.

"Whoah," Stark said. "Any more testosterone in here and I'm going to have to get a canoe. Logan, be reasonable."

"How's your work on the cure coming?" Logan asked, staring Stark right in the eye.

Silence. Stark regarded him, weighing his options.

"I'm in," Logan said, looking at Kravinoff. "Just give me the when and wheres."

**xXx**

Rain poured down on the seedy bar in Duluth, Minnesota.

Creed tensed.

"Don't you," the big man behind him said softly.

"Who the hell are you?" Creed growled.

"What if I told you I knew where you could find him?" the big man said, his voice still gentle.

Creed rose to his full height and turned to face the man standing behind him. "I said, who are you? Make me ask again and I'll pick through what's left of yer meat and clothes and find the answer myself."

Creed was a bit surprised when he did not tower over the dark man. He only had a few inches of height on the tall and solidly built man who was smiling in the face of Creed's wrath.

"I know you want Logan, and I can give him to you. In fact, I can arrange for you to fight him."

"Guess you aint listenin," Creed said. Claws slid out of his fingertips, and he lashed out.

The big man sidestepped, reaching into his coat. Creed gasped in startlement as a hand axe snipped through the flesh of his chin on its way towards embedding itself in his collarbone, splitting his sternum. As a follow through, the big man kicked him hard in the chest, knocking him off the axe and back into the bar.

"Arright," Creed spat, his voice frothy with blood that sprayed into his throat from below. He hunkered down, flexing. The patrons of the bar shouted and yelped, tumbling over each other to give the fighters space.

"I don't want to fight you here," the big man said smoothly, lowering the hatchet. "I want to take you to an island, just you me and Logan, survivor walks away."

Creed hesitated.

"If you come with me," the hunter said, "I will give you the chance to kill Logan and myself. If you do not," he said, shrugging, "how will you find Logan? How will you reach him to complete your burning need for his death? What if _I_ kill him before you can? If you truly wish to kill Logan, I am your best hope. You may kill me," he added. "But not here."

Sirens wailed in the near distance.

Creed still hesitated.

"If you prove to be the hunter your reputation makes you out to be," the hunter added, his eyes narrow, "you will kill Logan and me and also walk away with the cure for Tymaz Nine."

Creed blinked. "Okay," he said. "Okay, I'm in. I know some people who want that," he added. And he suspected he knew how badly. He smiled broadly to himself. He'd show Fury success.

**xXx**

Three sea planes bobbed out beyond the reef, and three rubber boats droned in towards the shore of the imposing island.

Logan stared at the island's outline in the dim morning as the sun rose behind it. Three days without a cigar; his body's healing factor kept him from the worst of the withdrawal. He didn't want to make it any easier for them to smell him. This wasn't a fight.

It was a hunt.

He stopped his mind before it headed into the obstacle course of apprehension, desire, anger, and uncertainty it had been running through for the past three days. The time for thinking was over. The time for action had come.

He looked over at the other two rubber boats slapping their way over the surf, headed for the island. He saw Kravinoff, crouched in the bow of his boat, and in the other one the unmistakable hulk of Creed.

Not a bit surprised.

The boats grounded, and the three men clambered out. Then the boats turned around and headed back towards the sea planes. The three men were in heavy canvas pants and combat boots, bare chested.

"Welcome to my island," Kravinoff said with a huge grin. "You have both been given instruction. In twenty four hours, it will be assumed only one of us still lives. The information for the contact for Tymaz Nine will come in to the fax machine in the interior. Know that it is a cartridge fax, not film, so there will be only one copy. You have twenty four hours until the plane returns. Use your time well. May the best hunter win."

"How about I kill you two right now," Creed said, flexing.

Kravinoff and Logan faced him.

"Feelin froggy," Logan said, "just jump."

Kravinoff just stared at him.

"Twenty four hours, huh," Creed said uneasily.

"That's what I figure," Logan said. He turned his back and started walking along the beach in one direction.

Kravinoff turned and headed into the jungle, towards the island's mountain. Creed watched them go. Then he sat down.

"Question is," he muttered, "which one do I wanna bag first?" He chuckled. "I'll just sit here by these two scent trails until I make up my mind…"

**xXx**

Kravinoff ignored the itch in his skin as he squatted on a narrow platform, high above the jungle floor. Below, Logan came out of brush cover, his sweep of the area complete. Kravinoff smiled.

"Good," he whispered to himself. "You found fresh water, checked out the area, disabled some of my traps." He nodded to himself. "We will all need fresh water."

He was camouflaged with clay and crushed herbs. When the mixture set, he would smell almost exactly like the surrounding jungle.

He was one with the canopy as the breeze swayed his hideout. He simply watched. Time enough to act once he was confident of victory.

Logan squatted on the stream's bank. He dipped his hand into the water, sipped from the cup of his hand. He looked out over the sparkling surface. This was the stream's deepest, slowest point. He cupped more water out and dumped it on his head, enjoying the feel as it found its way down through his hair, down over his neck, streaking down his back. Hot. This place was hot. And his senses were still learning the sounds of the wind across alien leaves, the peculiar unique noises of this place's wildlife. He couldn't trust his senses yet. By tomorrow he'd be acclimated.

Some distant part of his mind was simply slack-jawed that he was in this lethal situation. "Life's sudden," he muttered to himself. "If yer gonna get ahead, you gotta be ready to deal with that."


	38. Truce

The stream slapped a small wave against the bank. Logan narrowed his eyes, looked into the water—

A huge surge just below the surface; Logan got a brief glimpse of swelling water over the savage visage of Creed, attacking from below, like a gator—

As water exploded up over him, he rolled back, his claws whipping through the skin of his knuckles with the disturbing ring of steel on steel only slightly muffled by his flesh sheathes. Not fast enough. Creed's talons trailed down one arm, laying the skin and muscle open. Logan managed to roll under most of the attack, and then he was up and springing back as Creed darted after him, slashing and gouging.

His mind was far from battle frenzy as he faced off with Creed; the stakes were too high to go for deep sticks, so he'd settle for cuts, for nicks, for painful injuries that would slow Creed down. The big man leaped at him again, muscles tight and packed with the thrill of battle. Logan darted to the side and jabbed with his claws, cutting Creed's forearm and taking a chip of his elbow. As Creed whirled with a sweep of his arm, Logan ducked and jabbed as a single motion, sticking Creed in the knee.

Creed wasn't leaping at Logan, either; he couldn't afford to let Logan cut him too deep too fast, or Logan's claws just might finish him off. They squared off, and Creed feinted for a grab. Logan's claws hissed at where Creed's wrist would have been, and Creed's other hand darted out and grabbed the short man by the wrist.

In a smooth motion, his massive muscles flexing as one, Creed swung Logan off the ground and smashed him head-first into a tree. With a dull clang, the tree shivered. Creed whipped Logan toward another tree when the smaller man twisted his wrist in Creed's grip, his unspeakably sharp claws snipping through Creed's forearm flesh and cutting the tendon to his hand. Creed lost his grip in a scream of primal pain, and Logan sailed into the underbrush.

"Nice move," Logan said, springing up from the ground. He was almost twenty feet from his large attacker.

"Plenty more where that came from," Creed grunted as his flesh re-knit itself; he felt the tendon send out thin strings of new flesh, pulling his arm back together. "You got sharp little fingerknives, you know that, runt?"

"I know it," Logan said with a nod. "You know it too. I can't believe Fury agreed to let you come to this shindig just to get my metal bones."

"Fury had nothin ta do with it," Creed snarled. "You got no better claim to that metal than I do."

"I didn't even ask for it," Logan said. "Believe me," he added, nodding, "I wish they had put it in _you_ from the start." He shivered. "All things bein equal, though, I'd have to say I'm using it at the moment and not willin ta part with my bones."

"Maybe I can convince you," Creed said, a snarl beginning in his chest. Logan grinned, spun, and darted into the undergrowth. Creed was right behind him.

Far above, the observation stand was empty, swinging gently with the wind.

Logan ran out onto a large rock that formed a clearing in the jungle. The rock was over thirty feet to a side; plenty of room for a tussle. Even early in the morning it was warm with the sun. One side dropped over a shallow slope down to more jungle.

"I still can't believe you shot Mysty in the leg," Creed said, shaking his head as he walked out of the jungle. His cuts were fading.

"You think I shoulda shot her in the head maybe?" Logan growled.

"After what she did for you. After what she _was _to you," Creed said. "Only time in my life I wasn't sorry to handle the leftovers." He leered at Logan. "We been _real _close the last couple a decades."

"Ancient history, bub," Logan growled. "Aint that simple ta rile me. She always made her own decisions."

"Not like Sweet Lisa," Creed murmured, his eyes lidded and full of memory. "Mmm."

"Awright," Logan grunted, and he hurled himself to the ground, rolling. Creed hopped back, braced, and lashed down. Logan was ready for that. He changed the course of his roll as he came in without even watching for Creed to attack; he had predicted the strike. Logan came up with a backhand swipe that caught Creed's jaw, lay his face open, and chopped his nose in two as teeth sprayed out of his shredded visage. Creed's claws darted out, latched into Logan's exposed ribs, and tore his flesh wide open as he flung the smaller man through the air, spinning, to crash into a tree and bounce to the ground.

"Hm hm hm," Creed chuckled, pushing at his face with his claws. "Taste a home, I was," he said, his voice odd and slurping as his face struggled to reform.

"Shut up," Logan snarled, leaping back toward his tormentor as blood spun in droplets through the air behind him. He leaped right at Creed, and Creed slashed towards the air he would have to cross.

Logan's claws whipped out to each side, catching Creed through the palm of one hand and the wrist of the other, and Logan slammed a kick home with all the power of his heavy body. His boot snapped right into the shredded cheek, pounding bone and blood and flesh into Creed's windpipe. Creed's face and skull were mangled. Logan spun twisting, and Creed's hand tore badly, his wrist almost cut in two. Logan landed, crouched in a flashing circle of whirling blood, clear.

He was startled as Creed stomped on his upper back, slamming him to the ground. In a swift motion, Creed shoved Logan down with all his weight, using Logan to support him; before Logan gathered presence of mind to shift, Creed brought his other foot smashing down square on Logan's skull.

Logan gasped, dark fireworks exploding behind his eyes as his ribs flexed and his spine protested the weight. His claws—pointed the wrong direction—Creed so damned heavy—

Desperate, Logan bent his arm at the elbow, putting claws up over his head. Creed had no time to change course; his boot rammed down on the angled claws protecting Logan's head; claws punched through the top of the combat boot, transfixing the huge man's foot. Creed screamed.

Balance lost in a slithering and awkward struggle, the two men fell and groped at each other's wounds for a moment before Logan rolled clear and up to one knee, blinking and choking. Creed rolled, slower, and hauled himself up to his knees, his good eye fixed on his enemy.

Both men struggled to breathe as their magnificent healing fought to clear their breathing passages, rebuild what could be quickly rebuilt.

The underbrush swished, and then another one was with them. Kravinoff spun between the two and stopped for just a moment.

For that one frozen moment the other two hunters saw him, in his mottled warpaint with his eyes shining like beacons, a magnificent and terrible man. A huge knife was strapped to his belt, and in his hand a simple club.

Then Kravinoff was moving, unwilling to sacrifice his surprise. He took a quick step to Creed and whipped his club through the air, catching him on his wounded hand. Bones crunched and shifted; Creed howled. Logan was already leaping, but Kravinoff ducked into a compact squat, his arm whipping up in a hook shot motion that rammed the tip of the club into Logan's eye socket. Between the force of the blow and the force of the leap, Logan felt a ringing snap as his eye ruptured.

Kravinoff was free and spinning, the club clanging off of Logan's exposed ribs as it sent him crashing to the side. A fluid lunge with the tip of the club rammed it into Creed's mashed face with enough force to knock him on his back. Kravinoff said nothing, instead shifting his combat stance as Logan dragged himself up to his feet and Creed lay on his back scrabbling for leverage to rise.

Logan moved sideways, wary, low to the ground in a battle crouch that made him even shorter than he already was. Kravinoff shifted stances, watching both him and Creed. He wasn't even out of breath. He wasn't nervous, Logan realized. Only excited.

Logan spun towards him, claws slashing high for his face. Kravinoff easily shifted back, the claws swishing past; but before he could counterstrike—

—he gasped in agony as Logan's other claws punched down through the top of his foot, pinning him to the ground. Some deep instinct spoke in Logan and he whipped his claws straight back out instead of simply twisting and destroying the hunter's foot.

They crouched, just out of each other's reach.

"Thanks fer shuttin him up," Logan muttered with half a smile, inclining his head toward where Creed managed to get to his feet. "Now I think yer done dancin. Sorry ta kill ya, but yer deeply nuts." Logan shrugged. "Sorry." He crouched.

In a swift deliberate motion, Kravinoff whipped the long knife out in his other hand. He twirled the weapons once, ignoring the blood pooling from his wounded foot.

Creed sailed in, and Kravinoff leaped to the side ducking under one sweeping arm. He stood spinning, taking all the momentum from his move and channeling it into the club, which slapped into Creed's elbow, snapping it from behind. He lashed out with the knife blade jutting away from the heel of his hand, ramming it through Logan's forearm as the short hunter leaped and using the force of his slash to knock Logan off track, flying past Kravinoff instead of into him. Allowing his knife to pull him into a spin with Logan's momentum, Kravinoff slashed down with the club, catching Logan square on the back of the head as the short man tumbled away. Kravinoff was facing Creed as the big man spun to charge again. Logan tumbled across the rock and lay panting for a moment.

"Yer good," Creed managed, awkward through his crushed face. "Thtrong, too."

Kravinoff said nothing, his face devoid of emotion, and he twirled his weapons once and settled into stance.

Creed struggled to catch his breath. His foot was mostly better, but his hands were still badly torn, and his right arm was useless from the elbow down. He glanced at Logan, who managed to regain his feet; the smaller hunter's face was a gory nightmare, one eye crushed. He seemed to have a little trouble with balance.

Darting forward in a lunge that was so fast it belied his bulk, Creed managed to catch Kravinoff in his sweeping grasp and bear him to the ground. Blood spattered both men as they thudded to the ground, Creed's gory injuries spraying. Creed propped himself up on his shattered elbow, about to lash down with his claws when the club smacked across this throat and the big man under him twisted. The claws came down, but the mangled wrist was blocked by a forearm. Creed felt something tear, but he could not scream. Then, in a single powerful wrench, he felt himself thrown over. He lost track of where Kravinoff was—

The knife hissed down at him as he tried to roll. Then it clanged to a stop.  
For just a moment Kravinoff and Logan locked eyes as the knife was stopped between two of the claws jutting from Logan's fist.

Logan twisted his wrist in a deft motion. Two pieces of knife fell on Creed.

Kravinoff sprang back and landed on his good foot, then slid into a stance, club ready, wary.

Creed lay on the ground, panting, as Logan crouched and sidled closer to the hunter.

"You are going to have to let go, to survive this," whispered Kravinoff.

"I figure I won't," Logan growled. "You may be a hunter, bub, but ta me yer chump change."

Logan leaped to the side of Kravinoff and spun into range, claws whipping through the air. Kravinoff leaned back just far enough, then snatched at Logan's wrist. Logan let his spin carry him around, but before his free claws could catch Kravinoff in a backhand Kravinoff's club smashed into his wrist. The big man crushed his knee up into Logan's kidneys, then roared as he dropped the club and snatched Logan's wrists. Crossing them, he bent his mighty muscles into gripping Logan.

Logan's claws swept up by his shoulders, but Kravinoff's arms were huge, and he had Logan in a crushing grip. He dropped to one knee, forcing the shorter man down so he couldn't engage footwork. Logan kicked against the ground as hard as he could, violently rocking back, but Kravinoff was just too strong; Logan couldn't push free, he didn't have the leverage.

Then he heard the slap of wet footsteps, and Creed smashed into both of them. The tangle of three crashed to the ground and spun off the edge of the rock—

Ten feet down they smacked off the slope, busting the group of hunters apart, and each scrabbled at the slope as they slid away from each other.

For a moment Logan lay still, panting, feeling every muscle in his body ache. He heard Kravinoff spring up and retreat. He also heard Creed laying on the slope unmoving. He didn't raise his head to talk.

"Great," he managed. "Just great."

"Tboos," Creed said.

"What?" Logan said, propping himself up and looking over at Creed.

Creed pushed at his face. "Truce," he said. "Till I can talbk."

Logan lay back and felt his ribs regain their flesh, his head heal, his eye itch as it began to grow back in. He lay still, a mass of pain. Truce sounded like a pretty good idea…

After a few minutes, Creed started clearing his throat. When he could do so without obstruction, he rolled over and looked at where Logan lay some twenty feet away.

"Way I figure it," he said, "This nutjob is gonna git both of us if we loosen each other up for him. I think we know that now," he said, glancing up at the flat rock above.

"Yeah," Logan said. "Yeah, I think yer right."

"He's only beating us because we're distracted. I say until we've beaten Tarzan we forget about the past. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Logan muttered. "Let's check out the blood trail.

The two hunters rose and ghosted into the jungle.

**xXx**

"Runnin water," Logan said, squatted by the edge of the stream. "An about two dozen false trails all through here of different ages." He sighed. "Looks like he even scraped the moss off the rocks beforehand. It's not gonna be easy trackin him deeper in."

The underbrush rustled. Logan and Creed turned, tensed. Sniffed.

Then their assailant burst from the undergrowth, hurling towards them like a heavily muscled torpedo. Logan's claws were out, he caught the brunt of the assault on the six blades, let himself be hurled back, twisting, stabbing.

"I wasn't gonna say anything," Creed said, looking on in academic interest, "but I _am_ starvin ta death."

"Shaddap," Logan grunted, shoving the dead boar off his chest, "an help me carry this thing to the beach."

**xXx**

Afternoon was waning when they got the skinned boar hoisted up over their campfire.

"I still think it'd be a lot easier ta eat the damned thing raw," Creed grumbled.

"You can eat yer part raw if ya want," Logan muttered. "I'm cookin mine."

A short time later they sat by the campfire, forty feet from the treeline, twenty feet from the sea, tearing into the crisp, chewy flesh of the burnt hog.

"Sis good," Creed nodded at his shoulder joint of meat. "McDead Pig," he said, and grinned broadly.

"Prolly voilatin forty er fifty health codes," Logan said around his mouthful of ribs.

Then it was quiet for a good long while as they stuffed themselves, and their bodies hungrily broke down the food and healed their grievous wounds.

Dusk was settling in as they finished eating, licking their hands. They waded out into the water and washed the grease off, then trudged back up onto the beach.

"One helluva sunset," Logan said, looking out across the foam-crested water at the blazing glory of the day's death.

"Yep," Creed grunted. "Thanks fer supper."

Logan froze, and slowly turned to look at Creed. Creed sat unmoving, watching him.

"So you figure you can take him alone," Logan said, echoing the thought in Creed's tone.

Creed slowly nodded. "Figure I can," he said.

"What about us trackin him down together?" Logan said. "That was yer idea."

"I'm feelin much better now," Creed said. "Figure I'll polish you off, use yer smelly hide fer bait."

"You just want me for my body," Logan murmured. "Some things never change." He took a deep breath, lowered his head, then raised it and looked Creed right in the eye. "If that's how it's gotta be, what d'ya think yer waitin for?"

Creed stood. "I was gonna jack you in the back when you weren't lookin, or wait until you slept, but that just seems unsportin after all our adventures together. C'mon, Logan. Show me what you have left."

They squared off. Creed started to growl. Logan's face was set; almost a little sad. He waited.

Then a glittering bit of metal hissed out of the night and stuck into Creed's leg. Creed hesitated, looking down. He plucked an eight sided star out of his leg. Another peculiar whirring, and another bright bit of metal tacked into his chest. He growled, looking into the shadow beyond the edge of the campfire.

Kravinoff stood at the edge of the treeline, bandaged where necessary, waiting. He flicked another shurkien with a simple motion of the wrist.

Creed sidestepped. He looked from Kravinoff to Logan to Kravinoff.

"Do what you gotta do," Logan said softly.

"I'll be back fer you," Creed hissed. "First I'm gonna stomp down Tarzan."

He sprang up the beach, moving at inhuman speed toward the edge of the trees. Kravinoff spun and dashed into the gathering gloom of the jungle.

Logan squatted down on his heels, stirred up the fire, and watched the edge of the trees. He felt old.

"Yer on yer own," he murmured, but he wasn't sure who he was talking to.


	39. Shadowboxing

**xXx**

Creed's animal senses kicked into overdrive; he felt and tasted the jungle as he pushed through, on the edge of rage and frustration, ready to kill. The forty foot headstart Kravinoff had begun with was rapidly narrowed down. Kravinoff was fast, and he knew the trail, but Creed's senses drew him along the trail with a force few sentient creatures could understand. Ahead, a clearing. Creed bounded, no longer even running. Kravinoff reached the clearing first, launched himself through the air, caught a vine and climbed. If Creed had been slower he might have lost the trail.

But he was not slow. He leaped and caught the vine too—

Kravinoff let go of that vine and snatched to one next to it; under Creed's weight, the vine tore loose of the tree above, and Creed tumbled down ten feet to the trail. He landed easily on his feet—

smashed through the pit trap's cover, clawed wildly at his surroundings as they swirled down around him, a surreal moment as the entire jungle slid into the hole with him—

then the pain smashed into and through him, incredible pain. His eyes were useless, down here in the pit, but he realized what he was feeling. He was feeling sharpened stakes, four inches across, at the bottom of the fifteen foot deep pit. One was through his calf, one through each leg, one rammed up from the small of his back into his torso. Blood; he was losing too much blood—

For a moment Creed lay panting, desperately trying to get air as he lay impaled on the spikes. Could have escaped. Could have sensed the trap, but he was falling. It was too late. Everything was too late.

Kravinoff's head was silhouetted against the grayscale dimness of the jungle above. Why not. Creed tried to bark a laugh, but only a wheezing hiss escaped. Pain. Too much pain.

Kravinoff drew a machete from its sheath at his side. He slid down into the pit on the wrecked cover that had concealed it from Creed.

"Crazy," Creed managed, his breath whistling out. "Bring it."

The next few seconds in the dark were intense, brutal, and inhuman.

Then it was done.

Kravinoff managed to crawl out of the pit, freely bleeding. He dragged himself to his feet, bent down, picked up his prize.

Brandishing Creed's heavy severed head by the hair, Kravinoff howled victory into the gathering night.

On the beach, Logan lowered his head and slowly exhaled. He gathered his strength. Then he stood and walked away from the light, into the jungle.

**xXx**

Kravinoff pushed himself up the tree to his perch. He looked out over the beach. His brow creased. The fire was still burning brightly, but Logan was nowhere to be seen.His instincts flared, a moment too late.

A hard hand snatched his ankle and tugged sharply. Reaching out with instinctive swiftness, Kravinoff snatched his tree stand frame, and did not fall. A quick scrabble on bark, and he felt a powerful blow pound into the small of his back. Still he managed to hold on.

Then he heard the slitting sound of unsheathing claws.

He let go.

Tucking and trying to control his fall, he was lashed and whipped by branches before he crashed to the ground twenty feet below. Another thud, and he looked up to see Logan, crouched, claws out, his adamantium weapons gleaming in the moonlight.

Kravinoff rolled away and came up drawing his machete. He settled into stance.

"Yer not gonna punch my ticket," Logan growled in a soft voice.

Kravinoff smiled.

"Suit yerself," Logan shrugged. He walked towards Kravinoff.

The hunter stepped forward, lashing down with the machete. Logan slashed in a backhand that caught the big man's blade in his claws, shattering it, as he drove his other fist towards Kravinoff's chest. Kravinoff hopped back, catching his ankles on a fallen log; he toppled over backwards and Logan was on top of him.

Kravinoff managed to jerk to the side, feeling Logan's fist brush him as Logan's claws drove deep into the loam where his flesh had been a moment before. Logan kicked his foot, his punctured foot, and Kravinoff bit back a scream. With a mighty shove he pushed Logan away, airborne back into the small clearing. Logan landed and launched as Kravinoff rolled to his feet and ducked behind a tree.

Logan's claws punched into Kravinoff's ribs as he slammed them through the narrow tree trunk and into the hunter. His other claws whipped around the tree and caught Kravinoff on the back of his hand, effortlessly slicing through mere flesh and clinking against the machete hilt Kravinoff still gripped. Logan slid both claws free and sidestepped towards Kravinoff.

Their eyes met.

For the first time, Kravinoff saw death in Logan's eyes.

For the first time, Kravinoff felt a touch of fear.

The big hunter darted to the side, and Logan followed. Kravinoff slid down a slope onto a trail, and Logan followed. Kravinoff scooped up a rock, and tossed it at the trail.

In an explosion of the jungle floor, a noose whipped around where an ankle would be and the counterbalance dropped somewhere in the jungle; Kravinoff leaped, catching the retreating noose, and was hauled up into the canopy. Logan watched him go.

"No matter," Logan said slowly.

He headed toward the island interior.

**xXx**

Kravinoff's hand shook as he wound bandages around his punctured hand. He murmured an African prayer to himself, his eyes half closed, slowly swaying. Pain. The pain was enormous. But he would last it.

He packed his fist tight. Fortunately, the cut had not severed tendons. He bandaged his fingers together into a fist to keep it that way. He looked down at his boot, also tightly wrapped in bandages. His ribs were patched, but combat would open those wounds again. He did not have time to stitch himself up.

He glanced down into the valley below, saw Logan move through a clearing, headed towards the mountain at the center of the island. Indeed, that's where the fax machine was. There could be no better bait. Kravinoff was assured another confrontation.

His hands itched for a rifle for just a moment, then he shook his head.

"No," he said aloud.

He looked over his collection and then, almost lovingly, he picked up a hatchet.

He bent his fear, turned it until it was behind him.

It propelled him out of his shelter, towards the island mountain's crater.

"Live or die," he murmured to himself, "this, _this _is a hunt."

**xXx**

Logan walked up the trail that cut along the face of the mountain at an angle so it would not be too steep. He was sure this would lead deeper in, and he got the feeling Kravinoff didn't expect the hunt to get up here.

He sniffed. Blood; Kravinoff was upwind. Logan kept walking, eyes narrowed.

Kravinoff stood on the path. "You shall not pass," he said.

"I thought hunting was about striking from ambush with all the odds in your favor," Logan said. "What are you doin out in the open?"

"Satisfing my honor," Kravinoff said. "I fear you. To cut you down in ambush would be wrong. For the rest of my life I would wonder if I could have mastered you."

"Instead yer gonna get cut ta pieces in combat," Logan said, skeptical.

Kravinoff nodded. "If need be. That is a gentler fate. But I do not think I will lose."

"Suit yerself," Logan shrugged. He dropped into combat stance.

By now both men's pants were shredded, torn from the hips down and hanging from the knees in tatters. Their boots were cut and scratched, their torsos bloodied by the long thorns and sharp leaves in the undergrowth. They faced off, and all the pain went away.

Kravinoff skipped sideways, favoring his injured foot. Logan hopped to keep up with him. The two men faced off. Kravinoff twirled his hatchet once, in the hand that was not bandaged into a fist. Then he stepped in close enough for Logan to attack.

Logan darted in and slashed with his claws, but Kravinoff had expected him to aim for the hatchet; as he spun it out of the way of Logan's claws, he slid around and buried it in Logan's ribs from behind. He tore it free as Logan staggered forward under the force of the hit; for a second Logan was grateful Kravinoff only had one hand in this fight. The small man spun with a backhand slash at Kravinoff's torso, and Kravinoff jumped back so the lethal claws hissed past.

Logan was startled by the powerful clang of the hand axe slapping into his head, right between the eyes up on his forehead. His head rocked back on his shoulders and he stumbled; the axe head thudded into his neck.

In a reflexive motion he whipped his claws around in front of him. Just in time, Kravinoff released the axe haft and yanked his arm back, the claws hissed through the hatchet handle without slowing down. Logan yanked the axe out with his other hand and threw it away.

Kravinoff reached behind himself and pulled out another heavy survival knife. Logan grinned.

Kravinoff hopped in again, and Logan slashed at him. But Kravinoff evaded the claws, plunging the knife into the back of Logan's hand and guiding his claws to clang into the claws of his other hand.

In the moment it took Logan to untangle himself, Kravinoff slammed a powerful blow home with the bandaged fist that rocked Logan's head back on his neck again. Then Kravinoff stepped forward and wrapped his massive arm around Logan's head, yanking to the side.

A lesser man's neck would not have merely snapped, it would have nearly been torn in two. Logan felt his spine give, strain as he was whipped to the side. For a cold moment his spine barely held under the strain.

Kravinoff plunged the knife in to the hilt in Logan's gut; Logan could not scream. His elbow snapped up and crashed into Kravinoff's face, but the big man would not let go. The knife tore out, taking some of Logan with it.

Everything went red. Logan fought the rage that boiled up within him, the berserk fury that would, no question, kill Kravinoff. Logan wrenched to the side, and Kravinoff was hurled off him and sent tumbling across the road. The big hunter was on his feet in a moment, and Logan was whipping through the air at him. Kravinoff dropped to the side, grabbing Logan's ankle and pulling with all his strength.

The smaller man's leap became a swing, and he was suddenly spinning through the air. He crashed into a tree and dropped, blood flying out of his deep wounds. But he was on his feet and moving.

The world seemed to drop into slow motion for Logan. Kravinoff was before him, his face determined. He jabbed with the knife, and Logan swept his claws across it, knocking it out of the big hunter's grip. Then he was up, and his feet lashed out and caught the big hunter in the chest. The two of them crashed to the ground, Logan on Kravinoff's chest knocking all the wind from him and breaking some ribs, and the claws drove down—

Kravinoff lay on the ground, eyes open, stunned, a claw slicing deep in either side of his neck. He tried to look up; he realized that the center claw, the one that would have gone through his windpipe and spine, was retracted. The other two pinned the meat of his neck to the ground.

"You can get out of this with scars," Logan rasped. "I beat you. Admit it and you live." Logan put his other fist on Kravinoff's shoulder joint. "Don't make me kill you."

"The hunt is over," Kravinoff whispered, squeezing his eyes shut from the pain. "You are the victor."

"Damn straight," Logan said, and he retracted his claws with a slithering hiss of steel on steel. He unsteadily stood and stepped off of Kravinoff's chest. "Ow."

Kravinoff lay struggling to breathe.

Logan slumped to the ground, trying to stem the flow of blood. "How many hours till dawn?" he asked, his voice ragged with pain.

"Why," Kravinoff managed. "Why didn't you kill me?"

Logan looked at him for a long moment. "You aren't the trophy, Kravinoff," he said, his voice quiet. "The cure for Tymaz Nine, that's the trophy. You are just an obstacle." He lowered his head. "Besides, if somethin goes sour getting the contact info, I'll need you for my plan b or this whole jaunt's fer nuthin."

Kravinoff's chuckle turned into a cough and lapsed into silence.

Logan stirred. "It's not too late fer me to kill you."

Kravinoff said nothing.

"There's a cost fer your life, hunter," Logan said.

"What is that?" Kravinoff said softly.

"Someday I'm gonna need a hunter to hunt somethin down for me," Logan said. "When I call for you, I want you to do a hunt just for me."

"I can do that," Kravinoff said. "You have my word that I will.

There were long minutes of silence as the two rested. Logan was feeling much better except for a dull ache in his neck and shoulder. Kravinoff tried not to bleed too much.

"Creed's dead, aint he," Logan said, looking out over the jungle.

"Yes," Kravinoff said. "I took his head."

Logan shook his head once sharply. "You did me an the world a big favor there," he said. "He was a good sparrin partner," Logan added. Then he sighed. "An that's all he was good for."

"That's why I brought him," Kravinoff said, shifting so he could see Logan from where he rested on the ground. "He was not complete without you. To hunt him alone was to hunt an animal. To hunt you without him was to hunt a man. You were, together, one creature," Kravinoff said.

"What?" Logan said.

Kravinoff managed a smile. "All Creed wanted was revenge, and no man is smaller than vengeance. He was bigger than his goal. You have always wanted something bigger than yourself. That is why you were bigger than he was, even though he had a larger body. You were willing to bet your life on a cure for someone else. He came here just for a chance to kill. I knew he could not defeat you."

"I think you've lost a little too much blood," Logan grunted.

Kravinoff shook his head. "No. Not yet. You see, as a hunter I judge a man by the shadow he casts. You, Logan, cast a deep shadow." Kravinoff gathered his breath. "Who will mourn Creed?" he asked. "If I had killed you, who would mourn you?"

"Where's yer nearest stash?" Logan asked abruptly. "I better get you patched up or you'll die of blood loss."

"Up that tree at the bend," Kravinoff said.

A few minutes later Logan was bandaging Kravinoff's wounds. "That should hold ya," Logan said as he treated and bound the gashes through both sides of Kravinoff's neck. "Can ya breathe okay?"

"Fine," Kravinoff wheezed. Logan squatted and looked him over. Damn near dead, this man was.

"You okay to head up to the fax?" Logan asked the hunter. Kravinoff wheezed, and blinked twice.

"Yes," the big Russian said.

Logan nodded. "I'll catch up."


	40. Stolen, Captured

**xXx**

He stood at the edge of the pit, looking down at the mutilated headless meat at the bottom of the pit. He slowly shook his head.

"Wish I had somethin ta say," Logan murmured low. He swallowed hard. "I wish you coulda seen another way," he whispered. Then he turned his attention to the small canister of kerosene from Kravinoff's stash. He slopped some over Creed's body, far below in the pit, then he tossed the can down.

"Goodbye," he whispered, snapping the lighter open.

He dropped it.

For a long time, he stood staring into the pit, into the flame, watching it end.

Making sure.

**xXx**

"I figure it's less'n half an hour till sunup," Logan said as he caught up to where Kravinoff was hobbling up the mountain trail.

"Go on," Kravinoff said shortly. "I'll be fine."

"No, I think we better get up there together. That's where the chopper'll come down, right?"

"Yes," whispered Kravinoff, his face chalk white from blood loss. Logan supported the huge man, and together they stumbled toward the top of the trail.

"Only thirty meters," Kravinoff managed. "I'll catch up."

"Maybe you will, maybe you won't. I'm stayin with ya. I want that cure too much to risk losin it, you hear me?"

"I hear you," Kravinoff choked.

The sun flared over the lip of the ocean. Logan looked out across the water, and his sharp senses picked up the thudding blades of an incoming helicopter, still out of sight. He smiled.

He heard an electronic ring not too far away.

"Ten meters," Kravinoff managed. "Then we're to the tunnel in to the crater."

They covered the ten meters, then the twenty meters of tunnel to the crater. Then they walked into the open space, with the tent over the fax machine in the center.

Logan leaned Kravinoff against the wall and jogged over to the fax machine.

"Uh," he said. He quickly checked the paper tray. "Uh," he said. "The, uh," he managed, tapping the machine. "The fax. It's gone."

"What?" Kravinoff said, genuinely shocked.

Logan sniffed, his eyes narrowing.

Just the faintest hint of brimstone…

"The fax is gone," he said, his eyes furious. "We're gonna hafta tell yer contact to head for cover, before it's too late."

"No good," Kravinoff said. "I set it up through a double blind. I don't know who the contact is. If I did, the information could be tortured out of me."

"Dammit!" Logan said, with feeling. He turned to Kravinoff. "You owe me that formula. You have a copy?"

"Oh yes," Kravinoff said quickly. "I will be able to secure it. I would not put my only copy up as the prize."

"I'm callin in my hunt," Logan said, his eyes cold. Now they could hear the helicopter thudding through the air towards the crater. "It's time to find out who Trespasser works for. You'll like him," he added, his expression dark. "He should be quite a challenge. And he's furry."

"Furry?" Kravinoff said, startled.

"I'll tell you on the trip," Logan said, looking up as the chopper descended.

**xXx**

They sat facing each other as the helicopter lifted off and swooped away from the island towards the mainland. Behind them, another helicopter lifted from a clearing, sleek and dark.

It was a gunship.

"That chopper usta belong to the Project," Logan hollered. "Don't anymore," he added.

"Trespasser?" Kravinoff shouted back.

"Yep," Logan replied. "So you'll get that formula to me?"

"And a sample," Kravinoff nodded.

"It's been a pleasure," Logan grinned, "doin business with ya."

The gunship streaked away and was soon out of sight.

**xXx**

Stark nodded. "I'll hand it to you, Logan, that's one helluva story. So Creed's dead."

"Perished," Logan agreed, lighting up another cigar. "That's a load off my mind."

"Let me take another one off," Stark said, his face grim. "I know how Trespasser found you."

Logan watched him, expressionless.

"I've been looking over the scans we did of your skeleton when you first came here," Stark said. "I found a spinal anomaly. It's a tracer. It's also a transmitter and a microphone that listens with your bones as a sounding board."

"I suppose it's a bomb, too," Logan said, still expressionless.

"No," Stark said, shaking his head. "No, it's not big enough. They bothered to make the case out of adamantium, though. The whole affair is the size of a pencil eraser."

"And you know how to get rid of it," Logan said.

Stark smiled, and raised a small device like a television remote. He walked over behind Logan, pointed it at his spine, and pushed a button. He held it trained on one spot. "No telling who was listening in on that," he said, "but they are real unhappy right about now." He finally released the pressure.

Logan grimaced, then flinched. He felt something crack in his spine. "That it?" he asked in a strained voice.

"That's it," Stark said. "You're a free man."

Logan looked him in the eye. "It's been a long time," he said softly. He stood and left the room.

Stark watched him go, then looked down at the scrambler in his hand. He sighed, a deep sigh, and tossed it on the desk. Then he walked over to the window and looked out, his eyes and thoughts distant.

"You're free, Logan," he said. "Now what?"

There was no answer. He was alone.

**xXx**

The sinewy shadow crept along the roof of the house, then began to slowly climb headfirst down the wall towards the window. A dim wash of light from a screen inside the room glowed through the window as the stealthy figure climbed sideways, then right side up under the window, peeking into the room.

Infrared scans revealed no one in the house. The computer was powered by an extension cord, buried in the dirt and terminating in the neighbor's outside socket, most likely undetected. The phone line to this particular computer was an illegal tap to the line the entire street shared. Whoever set up this computer and its connection was a real pro, and it was either a trap or an amateur who _almost_ succeeded in covering his tracks.

For a moment, the infiltrator listened. He checked his readings through again. Couldn't be a trap. No one hiding in the house to trigger it, no trace emissions from explosives, electric eyes, nothing. Made no sense. Things that made no sense made the infiltrator very uncomfortable.

"I am a professional," he thought. "I can get away with this." He jimmied the window open with the ease of an afterthought and sprang silently into the room.

No explosions. No gas. The trespasser's curiosity was piqued.

He hunched over the computer for a moment. Sure enough; the computer was online and its web page editor was up, working on the page. Evidence didn't get more damning than that.

The window snapped shut—

Trap—

Even as he reflexively shunted his body into underspace to teleport away, some part of his mind realized the _real _trap—

The monitor blew out as the delicate device within detected the potential for mass displacement a hair of a second before teleportation, and a shock wave snapped through the room. The fuzzy blue man toppled to the floor, faintly steaming, out cold.

A few seconds later the front door opened, then closed. Heavy footsteps trod up the steps. Then the door opened. A huge man stepped in, knelt over the unconscious trespasser.

"This won't hurt a bit," he said as he administered a shot full of enough tranquilizers to keep his trophy unconscious for hours. He smiled.

"Computers," he said with a shake of the head. "I shall have to give my programmer a bonus." Then he stood, tugged the remote control apparatus off the hinge of the window, pocketed it. He picked up the sack with his prize and left the house, smiling as he walked past its "For Sale" sign. He tossed his prisoner into the back of his van, climbed in, and was gone into the night.

**xXx**

Trespasser blinked, shook his head, and sat up with a groan.

"Mornin, Kurt," said a hoarse voice. Trespasser bounded to his feet, trembling.

He was in a fifteen foot square room with a toilet and a bed and a door. Through the transparent window that took up much of the door, he saw a scruffy whiskered man sitting on a backwards chair. "Rise n shine," the scruffy man said.

"I demand to know the meaning of this," Trespasser said, his voice quivering with indignation.

"So you know, you're in Stark International's New York facility," his captor said with a gesture. "It's got all the doohickies it needs to keep you snug in there, so don't do anything to hurt yerself. Plus you've been searched. Believe me, you're glad to have missed that part, being unconscious and all. They were pretty thorough." He tugged a cigar out of his shirt pocket and bit the end off. He squinted at his prisoner. "As fer the meanin, cast yer mind back a couple weeks to a small island off the coast of Brazil. A fax machine. A helicopter. Ring a bell?"

Trespasser's yellow eyes blinked once. "No," he said, sounding puzzled.

"Just wait," Logan said, nodding sagely as he lit up his cigar. "It will." He grinned wolfishly, then took a drag on his cigar as he snapped the lighter shut.

"Your trap was cunning. More cunning than I would have expected of you," Trespasser said, his voice low.

"I contracted that one out, actually," Logan said. "How'd he do it?"

"You do not even know the methods used to capture me?" Trespasser said, equal parts contempt and outrage in his tone. "It was childish and cute," he said. "Fuzzyelf dot com. Little cartoons," he sneered, gesturing with his three fingered hands. "A little animated cartoon demon, cute as a _button_" he spat "steals black helicopters and teleports around on the screen. It could not be missed by my employers. They were most displeased," he muttered. "I was sent to investigate, with the information they gleaned about the origin of the site." He abruptly stopped talking, his mouth a tight line.

Logan's shoulders jounced as his face contorted. He was trying _very _hard not to laugh.

"Oh, to you I imagine this is most amusing," Trespasser spat, and he turned his back on Logan.

Logan's face was turning purple as his forehead bunched, containing the laugh that would not be contained. He put his head down on the back of the chair, struggling to regain his composure.

"Naw, that's not funny at all," he managed before the laughter burst free.

"Neither is this," Trespasser said, his voice even and cold. "I will get out, and I will get satisfaction for this… this rash and cowardly act."

"Now you know I wouldn't lock you up for no good reason, fuzzyelf," Logan said, mirth dying down. "You should have thought this through more carefully before you stole my prize."

"What prize?" Trespasser said with an expansive gesture. "Tell me what awful deed I have done to you, Logan."

"The cure for Tymaz Nine, nothing less," Logan said, his face darkening. "I fought hard to get it, I won it from Kravinoff fair and square, and you just port in and snatch it for your employers. I won't have that," Logan said. "You stole from me, and that's crossin a line I never thought we'd cross."

"You captured me," Trespasser said, exasperation in his voice. "Especially after our history," he added, "that is a line I did not think _you_ would cross." His face was grim. "Ever."

"Looks like we were both wrong," Logan said, his eyes hard. "I won't let you steal from me and get away with it, blue. I figured you tracked me with the device they put in my spine at the Project, but I'll get outa you who yer employers are before you leave that room."

"It seems we have nothing to discuss," Trespasser said coldly.

Logan stood, his face expressionless. "Get comfy, then," he said. "I thought of you as an ally, maybe even a friend. That's why I can't let this slide. You just think about that."

For a long moment their eyes met. Then, deliberately, Logan turned and walked away.

"Logan!" Trespasser called after him, taking a quick step to the door. "Logan?"

For the first time, he felt a cold touch of fear.


	41. Resignation

**xXx**

Logan sat at the table, his brow creased with effort, a pen gripped tightly in his hand. His other hand propped up his forehead as he worked at the table. He sat writing a note.

Behind him, a faint hissing whine accompanied the flaring disk of energy that slid from the floor, leaving in its wake an attractive young woman with reddish hair.

"Logan, you rang?" she said.

He turned in his chair and looked at her for a long moment. "I did," he said. She turned and glanced at the easel set up in his personal quarters. Scrawled on the paper with a thick black marker were these words:

_Lisa_

_Need to talk_

_Now_

"Here I am," she said.

He looked her in the eye. "I've got the cure for Tymaz Nine," he said evenly. "An injection is all ready for you, whenever you're ready for it."

For a long moment there was silence; Lisa swayed as the implications of what he was saying overwhelmed her.

"I'll be free of it?" she gasped.

"Forever," Logan nodded. "You ready?"

"You bet I'm ready!" she said, a smile spreading across her face.

He stood and opened the door, headed out into the hallway. She followed.

"This is incredible, Logan," she said. "Did Stark make the cure?"

"Nope," Logan said. "I mean, he synthesized a quantity of it, but he didn't figure it out."

"How'd you get it?" she asked, breathless.

"Doesn't matter," he said, his expression dark as she had only seen it a few times. She dropped it.

After another minute of walking, Logan opened the door to a clean sterile lab. Lisa followed him in, looking around.

"Wow," she said.

"That's the reaction we go for," said a dapper man with dark sleek hair. "I'm Tony Stark." He smiled. "Pleased to meet you."

"_The_ Tony Stark?" Lisa asked, her eyes growing large. Stark's smile grew.

"Just hop up on the table here," he said. "Make yourself comfortable and we'll administer the shot."

"I'm surprised Logan didn't just have a syringe to stick me as soon as I showed up," Lisa said wryly.

No one had anything to say to that. Her eyebrows raised, but she climbed up on the hospital bed.

A nurse came forward and prepared her arm, tying the rubber cord around her bicep and swabbing at her vein. Stark stepped around to the foot of the bed.

"Tymaz Nine is a remarkably clever weapon," he said. "It comes on two stages, pre adaptive and post adaptive. The pre adaptive stage can go into anyone. It's pure, and a sample is not available outside the KGB. However, once it is injected into the host, it adapts to their unique physiology. The virus shapes itself," he said, gesturing, "to meet the biological makeup of the host. That way it is guaranteed to kill when activated, and also it can't be replicated should an infected unit be captured."

"You sure this will work on a post adaptive strain?" Lisa asked in a small voice.

"Oh yes," Stark nodded. "You're the third person it's been tested on. The other two are now fine."

Logan stood with his arms crossed, expressionless. "Let's get on with this," he growled. Everyone in the room stopped and looked at him.

Stark nodded to the nurse, who swiftly and painlessly administered the shot. Then she stepped back. Stark smiled.

"We'll need you to stay in the area for the next few days," Stark said, "in case of complications. But that should be it," he said with a winning smile.

"Just like that," Lisa said, "I'm just cured." She snapped her fingers and smiled with deep-seated relief.

"Yep," Logan said tensely. He turned and left the room.

Lisa glanced at Stark, who shrugged. She hopped off the bed and jogged after Logan.

"Hey Logan, what's wrong?" she said, catching up to him. "I thought you'd be happy for me."

"I am, darlin," he gritted out.

"Oh, fine," she said. "Don't go all mushy on me. Don't you even care?"

He stopped walking, eyes still fixed forward. "Course I care," he said. "My honor is satisfied." He looked her in the eye. "I surrendered to the Project to get you a cure. They wouldn't make one. So I got it another way. Things between us are settled up."

"What, that's it?" she asked, irritation creeping into her voice. "I thought friends didn't keep score."

"They don't," Logan managed. He looked down the hall and started walking again.

"Hey!" she said, "don't walk away from me like this. Logan. Logan!"

He stopped and faced her.

"I just wanted to thank you," she said, suddenly feeling awkward. "For all the countermeasure every day. For the notes on your board so I knew you were thinking of me. You know, for everything." She blushed.

"Yer more than welcome," Logan said. "Have a nice day." He started walking again.

She stared after him for a moment.

A voice boomed behind her. "Is there no end to the women Logan brings here?" said an amused man. She turned to look at the newcomer.

He was tall, confident, a trim bulk of muscle. His dark hair accentuated his pale skin, and his eyes flashed with mirth. Then his jaw dropped, all color left his face, and he swayed on his feet.

"By the White Wolf," he gasped. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell senseless to the floor.

Logan and Lisa ran to where he lay. "Get him some water," Logan muttered gruffly, fanning the senseless Russian.

"Why does he look familiar?" Lisa asked, unmoving.

"Get some water, dammit," Logan said, not looking at her.

The huge man on the floor moaned and stirred. He blinked, opened his eyes. He looked at Logan, then gripped him with both hands.

"Logan," he gasped, breathless. "I have just seen my mother!"

"An here I thought you hatched," Logan muttered. "C'mon, Pete, get a hold of yourself." He winced. "And not me."

"I am sorry, comrade," the big man said, releasing Logan. He sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. "I could have sworn—" He stopped cold, eyes fixed on Lisa.

"Who _are_ you?" Lisa asked, curiosity in her eyes.

"I am Piotr Nikolaevitch Rasputin," he breathed, wonder in his eyes. "Who are _you_!"

"I'm Illyana," she said, a wrinkle of puzzlement in her eyes.

"No! No, it cannot be!" Rasputin said with a dramatic gesture that almost knocked Logan over. Rasputin scrambled to his feet. "My sister, Illyana Nikolievna Rasputin fell through the ice and drowned so many years ago in Russia!"

"That name, say it again, quickly!" Lisa said, straining as though to pick out a strand of music in a crowd.

He drew himself up proudly. "Illyana Nikolievna Rasputin, my sister," he said.

For a long moment they stared at each other.

"I was six," she blurted.

"And I was eight," he replied. "That day has been written in my heart with ash and tears and guilt since you were lost to me, and now, here!" he said with a gesture. He was overcome with emotion.

In a rush they clasped each other. "My first step," Illyana said, "I remember it was so cold…"

"Whoda thunk," Logan said with a small smile, tugging out a cigar. "Yer own flesh and blood, a capitalist piglet." He shook his head, and lit up.

"We must check with Stark immediately, so he may analyze our blood," Rasputin said quickly. "Though my spirit saw you with eyes beyond those of flesh and recognized you for my sister, still we must see what science can confirm."

"Wow," the woman who was both Illyana and Lisa breathed. "This is incredible."

"Come! We have no time to lose! Then you must tell me everything about your life! Do you live in New York?"

"You bet, not far from here," Illyana said as she jogged to keep up with her brother's strides. They headed down the corridor of the medical wing, looking for Stark.

Logan shook his head, turned, and walked away. He thought for a minute. "Hm. If I'm Illyana's dad," he mused, "that'd make me Pete's step dad. Maybe I should start calling him Junior." He smiled.

Then he stopped smiling.

**xXx**

Night was falling as Logan trotted along the perimeter fence. He stopped short when he saw Stark, straight out of Casablanca, in a white suit smoking a cigarette, looking out through the fence.

"Stark," Logan said, strolling up. "What brings a busy guy like you out here? I thought you had your fresh air imported in expensive plastic bottles."

"Oh, that smarts," Stark said with a little playful wince. "Actually, I came out here to talk to you."

"How'd you know I'd be coming by here? Cameras have trouble with my route."

"Your route, if you didn't know it, is legendary here," Stark said. "Everyone knows about your roaming. I think it helps the staff feel safe, like someone is watching over them."

Logan blinked. "People know about this?"

Stark chuckled. "You're more famous than you know, Logan." He took a swift pull on his delicately held cigarette. "That's why it stings to lose you."

"You gonna fire me again?" Logan said, his eyebrows raising in surprise.

"Not at all," Stark said, shaking his head. He looked out through the fence. "No need for that. You have the cure for Tymaz Nine, and so does Rasputin. He got a sister to boot." Stark shrugged. "That makes me expendable. Doesn't it." He breathed out a thin streak of cigarette smoke.

For a long moment Logan stood unmoving. Then he glanced swiftly out through the fence, at the urban jungle beyond a short strip of darkness that served to buffer the installation. "Bein expendable is a heavy load, Stark," he said. He shook his head. "I was never in it for the money. I didn't work for you just because of Tymaz Nine. You an me, we can learn from each other. That's why I'm really here, Stark. It's about two people helpin each other."

"Touching," Stark said, his smile souring. "Credible." He took a pull on his cigarette.

Logan looked out through the fence. "I'd be lyin if I told you that I never thought about leavin as soon as I had what I needed from you. But you just showed me somethin that changed my mind about that."

"What's that?" Stark asked, only a hint of bitterness in his voice.

"You'd notice if I was gone," Logan said softly. He looked at Stark. "Maybe you're payin closer attention than I thought."

Stark looked over at him. "I'm not sure I understand."

"You make it easy to feel overlooked, Stark," Logan shrugged. "There've been whole weeks I felt like a little cog in yer master plan, and believe me that's not somethin I can be." He looked back out at the city. "Stark," he sighed, "You could be a great man. Not a great industrialist, or a great philanthropist, or a great inventor. A great man. I see it in you when you fergit ta pay attention to yer grand schemes, when for just a moment," Logan said, squinting and pinching his fingers, "you let down your guard." He shook his head. "I'm a romantic," he said with a shrug. "I wanna believe that anybody can be a hero."

Stark struggled with a smile. "Not much in the way of benefits. Does the 401k roll over in retirement?"

"I don't know about that," Logan grinned, "but I can say the benefits are great." He nodded to himself. "You can tell a hero because when he's down on his luck people come outa the woodwork ta pay him back for the good he did in their lives."

"No paupers grave for your heroes, huh," Stark said.

"What can I say?" Logan said, grinning at him. "I'm a romantic."

Stark sighed. "I was just checking to see if you planned to stay because I'm having Pepper put together the invitations for the staff picnic next week, and I needed to know who would be attending." He dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out.

Logan chuckled. "Shouldn't you be inside countin yer beans?" he said.

"No no, I pay people to count those for me," Stark said. "I'll be in playing with my tinker toys."

For a moment they were more serious than they wanted to be. The shadows by the fence were deep, and their eyes gleamed with the reflection of the sentry floodlights pointed elsewhere.

"Thank you, Logan," Stark said.

Logan tried to shrug that off. "Any time, Stark. Have a good night."

Stark smiled, then turned and walked with his purposeful gait back towards the compound.

Logan watched him go, thinking things over. He shook his head, and continued on his run.

**xXx**

An hour later, he moved quickly and quietly through the dorm wing, almost as though he was infiltrating it. His heart was beating fast when he spun into his room and slid the door shut. He finally relaxed, locking the door.

Not a moment too soon. He heard laughter in the lounge outside. He walked over and sat in his comfortable chair. Lisa or Illyana, finishing a story, the healthy booming laughter of her new brother Piotr.

His doorbell chimed. "Logan my friend, are you back?" Rasputin said into the door.

"Nobody home," Logan whispered. He could almost see the big man shrug.

"Let me tell you of my top score on the pinball machine," Piotr said, and his sister laughed.

Logan sat in his dim room alone and wondered if he'd ever be able to hold on to a family.

He stood, walked over to the note he had been writing Stark. With a deep sigh, he tore it into little pieces and dumped it in the trash. "So much fer my resignation," he muttered.

He felt an entirely different breed of resignation as he lay on his bed and did not sleep.


	42. Slipped Away

**xXx**

Logan strode down the hallway, through the light of the early morning sun. Behind him, rapid steps moved to catch up.

"You're an early riser," Illyana said to him.

"Yep," he grunted.

"Look, I haven't had a chance to talk to you," she added.

"Nope," he grunted.

"I want to tell you about what I'm doing these days," she said, a touch of exasperation in her shortening breath.

"Not right now, busy," Logan said.

"I'll just walk with you," she said, half jogging to keep up.

"Suit yerself," he grunted.

"I just wanted to let you know, I've found a teacher, I'm learning more about magic," she said. She gulped a little air and continued, still moving fast. "I've got a new roomie, she's great, her name is Valeria." She narrowed her eyes. "What's the matter with you, Logan? Why are you being so cold?"

He stopped abruptly and turned to face her. Her heart, already racing, beat faster.

"Why am _I_ being so cold to _you_?" he snarled, low and fierce. "You checked out of my life and struck out on your own," he said, throwing out his arm in a tightly controlled gesture of frustration. "I let you. You made your decisions like a big girl, a real grownup, and I let you. What's done is done. My debt is paid. But don't you forget this," he said, his voice growing cold enough to snap dead wood, leaning in so close that the scent of his cigar was overpowering to her. "_You betrayed me_. I can't forget that. I'll never let you do it again."

Abruptly, he spun on his heel and continued down the hall, shoulders set, strides as long as his legs would allow; he carried the sense of a stormcloud waiting to burst.

She stared after him, speechless.

She opened her mouth.

She closed her mouth.

She breathed for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts, to figure out what she had to say to that. Her face darkened with anger. "You're not turning your back on me, bub," she muttered as he slammed through the maximum security vault door at the end of the corridor.

"We aren't done," she said as her stepping disk deposited her at his side. She glanced over at the cell. "What's _he _doing here?" she asked, bewildered as she looked at Trespasser.

"This is a restricted area!" Logan barked.

"You think that means anything to me?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "You'd rather I stay in limbo and scry on you? Really, what's he doing here?"

"He stole the cure for Tymaz Nine right out from under my nose," Logan said, glowering at the blue-furred creature curled on the cell bunk. Trespasser did not yet know they were outside.

"But, don't you have the cure now?" Illyana asked, confusion in her face.

"No thanks to this stinker." Logan gestured at his nose. "The sniffer never lies." He punched a panel, and Trespasser rolled to his feet as the window became transparent from both sides.

"Lisa!" he said, surprised.

"Trespasser," she nodded. "You stole the cure for Tymaz Nine from Logan?"

"I swear I did not," he said, drawing himself up to his full height. "I don't know what he's talking about. Whatever else I am, I am not a liar."

She looked at him for a long moment.

"Bout time you got lost," Logan growled at her. She looked at him for a moment.

She extended her arm and clenched her fingers into a fist. Inside the cell, a stepping disk flared. Trespasser took a shock, but then he was gone.

Logan stood trembling with rage. "What?" he snarled. "What do you want? How many times you gotta betray me before it's _enough?_ Why you gotta stab me in the back every time I turn around?" He actually vibrated with fury.

"Maybe you have no gratitude for being rescued from the Project," she snapped back, "but _I do_. And from Belasco. Trespasser made my life possible. And it's illegal to hold someone without charges. If anyone should understand that, it's _you._"

"Gratitude? **Honor**? From **_you_**!" Logan spat. He spun on his heel and left before he did something permanent he would regret.

Upon reaching the hallway he broke into a mile-eating lope that she couldn't match. She let him go, doubt gnawing at her for the first time.

Her brother strolled up. "Looks like Logan is tightly wound today, as usual," he said with a chuckle. "He's too high strung, too touchy," he said as he shook his head. "Let's go get some breakfast. I believe a man should get his breakfast in before the first temper tantrum of the day."

"Yeah," Illyana said, and she bit her lip.

**xXx**

Stark strolled up behind Logan.

"Seems you know my haunts," Logan said without turning.

"I hear this is attractive because you can see all entrances and exits from this vantage," Stark said, looking around. "It is a fine view."

"Whatcha need."

"I was wondering if you had any specific ideas on distribution of Tymaz Nine's cure. I mean, the disease isn't public and shouldn't be. So how do we distribute it?"

"I got what I wanted," Logan said. "You said I could have some whenever I wanted, no strings attached, and I sold it to you for the cabin and a few other odds and ends. Cure's yours, do what you want. I'm done with it."

"You okay, Logan?" Stark asked, looking at his tense back. "Not like you to be caught without an opinion."

"I am not okay," Logan bit the words off.

"Whoah, settle down," Stark said, sitting on the lip of the roof, facing Logan.

"I go through life doin my best to do what's right, believin what I believe. Then every time I turn around I'm wrong and there's nobody to blame. Everybody I get attached to betrays me sooner or later, or they disappear, or both. Maybe I need to go on walkabout and get my head on straight, figure out what's right and what's wrong."

Stark noticed he was pale, his eyes bloodshot. "Why does it matter, what's right and what's wrong?" he asked. "Maybe if you just follow your heart right and wrong will sort themselves out."

"Priceless," snapped Logan. "Fine advice if everybody would follow their hearts. But they don't. And nobody's alone. _That's_ why it matters. When nothin lines up right, I gotta know which side I'm on."

Stark sighed. "I have nothing to add to that. Look, if you need anything…"

Logan nodded. Stark stood, patted him on the shoulder, and left the roof.

"Don't make me wait," Logan muttered. "I know yer list'nin."

A few seconds later a faint step whispered on the roofing.

"I am innocent, Logan," the Trespasser said softly. "This time, I truly am innocent."

Logan slowly nodded. "If I see you again, I'll kill you," he said. "I can't take bein stole from, lied to, and betrayed all at once."

Trespasser nodded with a sigh. "I get a lot of that," he says. "I regret the end of our friendship. I take you at your word, Logan," he said, a hardness creeping into his voice. "I won't be _seen_."

He was gone.

Logan waited, feeling the sun climb in the sky. Soon.

Indeed, it was not much later when the Rasputin family came bounding out the front. Logan couldn't help but hear.

"And after I show you around and introduce you, how about some pizza? I know a great place," Illyana said.

"That would be grand," Piotr said. "I cannot believe that I had to cross an ocean and a philosophy to be rejoined with my lost sister!"

"You know I can't give up my new life here," she said quickly.

"Nor would I ever ask such a thing of you," Piotr said earnestly. "But I will be very much better in homesickness having family nearby. Nothing, _nothing_ is more important than family."

Lisa Sendry was left behind as Illyana Rasputin ducked into her brother's car and pretended not to see Logan's silhouette watching them drive away.

**xXx**

A greasy film of mist lay over everything, and the thin drizzle did nothing to cut through it. Only a few people were around. The sun was setting in the west with a tremendous flaring display through the mist and clouds and dankness.

A woman walked across the slick sidewalk to a pay phone. She glanced over her shoulder, her sharp eyes taking everything in. She was dressed in dark sensible clothes and a long black leather coat that swirled around her legs. She carried no bag. Her hair was bright red, her stride determined.

The phone squalled. She snagged the handset and turned her back to the phone, saying nothing.

"Good that you have come," said a voice on the other end. "Go to the park at the end of the street. Through the east entrance, three benches down. We will meet you there."

"No," she said. "The train station at the north end of town. I will meet you on the platform. Thirty minutes." There was a long moment of silence. Her eyes narrowed. "Or I walk," she added.

"Train station, thirty minutes, fine," said the voice on the other end, sounding a bit pained. "You are a paranoid woman," it added.

"If I wasn't, you wouldn't have contacted me," she said, and she hung the phone up and started walking.

"Whatcha got for me, Kravinoff," Logan asked as he slung himself down in the booth. The huge man opposite him smiled, his teeth shining. He was handsome, in a brutal way. His dark hair was combed back from his broad features.

"I have a lead," he intoned, his deep voice distinctly Russian. "I have a friend who helps me with computer work, he lives in Germany. I gave him a list of those I suspected might be infected with Tymaz Nine so he could tap into the world's airline computer network. If any of them travel, without changing their names overmuch, I know of it. There is a domestic flight, from Los Angeles, California, to Duluth, Minnesota."

"Sounds thin," Logan said. "You know this person?"

"By reputation only," Kravinoff shrugged. "Her name is Natalia Allanovna Romanova. But she was travelling under the name Natasha Allanovna Shostakova. You see, Natasha is a nickname for Natalia, and Shostakova was her married name before her husband was killed. Your domestic agencies wouldn't know of those facts, so she could safely travel without attracting the CIA or FBI's attention."

"Warmin up." Logan nodded to the waitress who brought him coffee, then hunched back down. "So what makes you think this woman has Tymaz Nine?"

Kravinoff shrugged. "She was trained by the KGB, a product of their Red Room. As an international spy she operated for about five years under the Soviets, and since then the command chain gets murky. She's been in the States most of that time. Her code name is the Black Widow."

"Is she black?" Logan asked.

"No," Kravinoff said with a smile. "I got you a picture, though it was not easy." He handed Logan a glossy photograph of a woman with short red hair, striking features, bright green eyes. "She is masterful at what she does," Kravinoff added, tapping the picture. "We will be fortunate to see her in person."

"So you're thinking the Tymaz Nine would ensure her loyalty to the KGB, insurance against her joining the enemy, a failsafe they wouldn't be able to resist employing," Logan said, leaning back.

"Just so. And with the current chaos," Kravinoff shrugged, "I can't guess who holds her leash. I am sure she longs to be free, just as anyone would under those circumstances."

Logan shrugged, watching the picture. "If she is a good spy, any number of groups would want to add her to the stable. I think you're on to something, Kravinoff."

"My instincts tell me this is a solid lead," Kravinoff said, nodding at the picture. "And there's more. I checked it out. Her ticket was paid by a third party whose paper trail evaporates before it is fully recorded."

"Plus," Logan said, "why on earth would someone want to leave L.A. to visit Duluth?" He shook his head. "Doesn't add up. Let's take a closer look. You've put some thought into contact and surveillance?"

"Of course," Kravinoff said with a somewhat unsettling smile. "Of course."

**xXx**

The phone on the counter rang, and the bored woman answered it; "Duluth Station, may I help you? Hm, I'll see if anyone by that name is here." She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. "Is a Natasha here?"

"Yes," said a redhead, stepping up to the counter.

"Oh," the receptionist said, blinking. "He seems to have hung up."

Natasha glanced out the window and saw a man close his cell phone. She strode out the door onto the platform, glancing around.

"Two minutes to spare," she said coolly.

"We do not wish to lose you," muttered the tall man. His face was obscured in shadow, but he was dressed in a fedora and trench coat, about as cloak and dagger as he could be.

"What must I do? What's your price?" She glanced again across the tracks at the deep darkness of the twilight forest that stretched away from the steel rails of the fence and tracks and station.

"My employers wish you to work for _us_," the tall dark stranger said. "In exchange, we will cure you."

"No deal. You've wasted my time," she said, throwing her head back. "I'd rather die than be shackled to yet another corrupt regime." She turned to go.

"But you have not yet heard what we wish you to investigate," the tall man said, pulling something from his pocket and extending it towards her back. She half turned, stopping.

"You have ten seconds," she said.

"We have a mystery," the tall man said, "surrounding the whereabouts of Alexi Shostakov."

She whirled and faced him, nostrils flaring, eyes bright in the dimness. "You are on dangerous ground," she said. "Compelling evidence, now, and I'll consider your offer."

"This, to start," the tall man said, gesturing with the object in his palm. She took three steps to him, and lifted the object. It was a locket, made of gold, with a silver chain. Her hands trembled. She popped it open, and inside there was a picture of a laughing young red head on one side and a smiling, strong, dark eyed man on the other.

"Where did you get this," she whispered.

"He wore it each time he tested a rocket, yes?" the dark man said. "We wondered, very much, how it could have survived if he was killed as a rocket exploded with him aboard as the authorities said."

She clasped the locket and looked into his eyes.

"The answer seems guaranteed to be unpleasant," he said. "We need someone to get to the bottom of this. We're a little short handed right now, and we lack personnel with the skills to navigate through the shattered remains of the iron curtain. We will give you countermeasure for Tymaz Nine enough to last through your investigation, and when you've found out all you can then you are free, we will cure you."

She stood speechless.

"Tomorrow morning, ten o'clock, at the public library by your hotel. We will meet in the reading room," he said, "and I will give you the countermeasure and our file of what we've found out so far. Complete the assignment, and you will be cured." He smiled. "Do we have a deal?"

"I'll see you there," she said. She hung the locket around her neck.

The tall man turned and strolled off the platform, towards the street. She watched him go for a moment, then followed.

By the time she reached the gate, he was nowhere to be seen. She shivered; it had been a long time since she had failed to shadow someone. She flagged a taxi and headed back to the hotel.


	43. The Cure

As she rode back, she watched the thin rain bead on her window, then streak back away from the wind. Her mind turned over the appearance of the man she talked to, referencing and cross referencing her studies. He didn't match any profiles she could recall. If she had seen him before, she would remember. Even more unsettling. He was trying hard to look CIA, but he wasn't. She wondered who he worked for.

She strolled through the lobby of the hotel.

"Ms. Shostakova," the clerk said, quickly. She looked over at him. "A package came in for you while you were out."

"A package, really," she said, moving to the counter. The clerk ducked fumbled for a moment and came up with a small box. Her name was written on the top in black marker.

"Thanks," she said, turning her back on him to open it. Inside was a cell phone.

She looked at it narrowly for a moment, then pocketed it and turned back to the clerk. "Thank you, you've been most helpful," she said with a smile.

She almost made it to the stairwell before the cell phone rattled off its warbling ring. She opened it.

"Greetings," came a deep voice in Russian. "I am not KGB. May we talk a little?"

"Who are you then?" she asked in fluid Russian.

"There will be time for that," the voice replied. "Of more interest to both of us is what I want, yes?"

"Yes," she said. "You're running out of time."

"I stole the cure for Tymaz Nine from the KGB, and someone in turn stole a sample from me. I'm upset about that, and I want to know who else has the cure, so I can punish them for stealing from me. You are about to find out the identity of someone else who has it. I will cure you, if you reveal the identities of those you are negotiating with."

"No deal," she said, and she prepared to close the connection.

"I have the cure with me," he said earnestly. "I can think of no better way to demonstrate my good faith than to cure you. I want nothing more than to keep you out of the clutches of yet another corrupt government."

She hesitated, thinking. "How did you find me?" she asked.

"I saw your plane reservation, cross referenced known aliases with hotels," the voice replied. "I do not want this to turn into any kind of confrontation. I thought this phone might be the best way for us to talk."

"Who is this?" she demanded.

"I just want to make things right," the voice replied. "When would you like to be cured?"

"How about right now?" she said.

"I'll meet you in the lobby," the voice replied.

She turned and headed back to the lobby, snapping the phone shut.

Waiting for her there was a huge man. He stood well over six foot, bulked with muscle but free of fat. He smiled, his huge white teeth gleaming.

"Sergei Kravinoff," she said, raising an eyebrow. "I would never have expected to see you here. How is hunting these days?"

"Much better since I was cured of Tymaz Nine," he replied easily. They spoke in Russian, feeling confident that those around them would not understand even if they could overhear.

"You were infected?" she asked, her eyebrows raising with surprise.

He scowled. "Yes."

She understood. "Assassinations?"

He shrugged. "What's past is past. They paid for their crimes, and I obtained the cure. I detest the thought of Tymaz Nine being used to ensnare others, to make slaves."

She glanced around the open lobby. "Perhaps we should move to the lounge," she said. "Is the cure an injection?"

"Yes," he replied as they headed for the somewhat dimmer and more private lounge. It was deserted. "The cure takes effect over about three days. Ideally there is supervision over that time, but we will not suggest that for you. It is hard enough to trust as it is, and I understand that. This cure has freed three so far with no ill effects, so I believe you should be fine."

They stepped into the lounge, making a striking couple. Kravinoff guided her around to a booth towards the back. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a small glass bottle and a plastic wrapped syringe. He expertly freed the syringe and drew the contents of the glass bottle into it.

"I apologize," he said with a smile. "I forgot to bring swabs. I do have a band aid, however."

She shrugged out of her leather coat and tossed it on the table. Her shirt had no sleeves. She extended her arm, her eyes bright in the dimness. Kravinoff exhaled, and raised the needle. He hesitated, caution darkening his features. He glanced around, sniffing.

The syringe exploded in a fine shower of glass and liquid as a bullet passed through it. Kravinoff leaped to one side, Natasha to the other as more bullets pounded through the wallpaper and wooden screens. Silenced Glocks, close range. Kravinoff popped up behind the partition, Natasha peeked out from where she was prone behind a booth.

Three figures, dressed in black, silenced weapons. They moved closer, gunsmoke twirling in their wake.

"Autodial four on the phone! Call me!" Kravinoff said in a stage whisper. Then he stood, whirling, and plunged through the window in an explosion of glass. The lounge was on the first floor, so he hit the ground running, a few bullets zipping hungrily after him.

Natasha gathered herself for a spring. Three of them, and not the best in the league. She gave herself a four second time limit to have them on the ground disarmed. She glanced out to check distance.

Another figure stepped into the lounge doorway. A silenced gun barked three times, and the three gunmen sprawled forward without a chance to return fire. Natasha watched as the woman who shot them in the back stepped into the lounge and swiftly closed the doors.

"Natalia Allanovna Romanova," the woman whispered. "Are you here?"

"That depends," she replied from behind cover. "Do you want to shoot me too?"

"No, not at all," the other woman said, holstering her pistol. "More are on their way. Come with me." The blonde dashed to the window Kravinoff had burst and leaped lightly through. Natasha was right behind her.

To the parking lot. They dropped into a battered dark luxury sedan, and the blonde fired it up and off they went.

At the other end of the parking lot, a car started up. Kravinoff smiled, and spoke into his CB. "You getting this?" he asked.

"Loud and clear," said the gruff voice on the other end. "I'll be right there."

**xXx**

"You must know it was curiosity, not fear, that brought me this far," Natasha said sternly. "Pull the car over. We must talk."

"I don't think we're a safe distance away yet," the blonde said, glancing in her side mirror.

"Pull over now or I will pull us over," Natasha said, her voice even.

The blonde glanced at her, then flicked on the turn signal and pulled off the road. She turned to face her passenger.

"You have thirty seconds to explain who you are and how you fit into this," Natasha said. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she did not so much as gesture threateningly.

"My name is Ana Prentis," the blonde said. "I've been following you since you hit Duluth. Two groups are trying to get to you, a spy ring and a small coalition built by Kravinoff. He's gone mad in the last year or so and he's hunting down and killing Russian ex-pats. The spies can't be trusted but they do offer life and a cure. I'm here because you're my hero," Ana said, and she blushed.

"Is that so," Natasha said.

"Yes," Ana nodded. "I know some of your history. How your husband," she said, and she paused for a moment to collect herself. "Your husband was killed in the line of duty," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "I always thought that was sad, but I admired how it shaped you. The things around us shape us. My husband was… recently killed… in the line of duty. I was hoping," she said, looking away, "we could work together. That would mean a lot to me. A shared burden is lighter, I am told."

Natasha watched her. "My instructor told me that tragedy gives the true artist the strength to go on and become more, that anguish and suffering create vision. He was… is… a madman." She looked out the window. "The thugs with guns. Who were they?"

"Central Intelligence Agency," Ana said. "Kravinoff tipped them off to your meeting. He wants the authorities to bring you in."

"Your story is full of holes," Natasha said, her eyes distant. "Kravinoff cannot both want to kill me himself and want to involve the government. Besides, I'd know CIA. They were something else. Playing for sympathy with a story about a dead husband is an old trick that has been tossed at me time and time again; it is offensive. And Kravinoff has not been killing Russians." Natasha opened the car door. "We have nothing further to discuss."

"Wait!" Ana said, and something sharp was in her voice. "You walk away from this, from me, fine, we'll both deal with the consequences. But before you go," she said, her voice hardening, "know that my husband was killed just a few weeks ago, and that the pain is very fresh in me, and that I _do_ admire you. That's why I want this to go the easy way."

"Life," Natasha said, stepping out of the car. She leaned down to look at Ana. "It is sometimes so disappointing," she said, shaking her head. She turned and walked down the sidewalk.

Ana got out of the car and half jogged after her. "Wait," she said. "Just another moment."

Natasha turned, taut, wary, irritation growing. "Let it go or you will be made to let it go," she said softly.

"She never was real good at that," growled a voice from the alley.

"Logan?" Ana said with a small gasp. A short man with wild upswept hair stepped out of the shadows between the two women.

"And you would be?" Natasha said, her eyebrow raised in an elegant arch.

"Kravinoff's partner at the moment," Logan said. "Don't listen to another word this bottom feeder is tryin ta get into your head."

"Bottom feeder?" Ana said. "Hardly polite."

Logan looked at her.

Her hand darted to her belt, reaching for her knife as he sprang. She whipped it clear, sidestepped him, and jabbed with the knife. It drove into his shoulder, but he was turning already. She flexed back, and his punch slid in front of her face. Fast. He had almost forgotten how fast she was.

They squared off. "You can't take me down without maiming me, Logan," she said. "You don't want to do that, do you?"

"Nope," he said with a grin. He feinted towards her. Her eyes widened, she spun around—

Just in time to catch the whirling bola around her neck and shoulder. The weighted balls on the end of the ropes hit the end of their swing and swirled inward as she flailed, then they knocked her, hard. She awkwardly tumbled. Logan snatched the rope of the bola, jerked her up to her knees, and put his fist on her shoulder pointed down towards her joint, arm, collarbone, lungs…

"Nice distraction," she said sourly.

"Look here," Logan said to Natasha. "You've been talking to a shapeshifter. Show her somethin she'll recognize, darlin."

"Go to Hell," Ana snapped.

"I know you can grow it back," he said softly, moving his fist over her arm, "an I know it will hurt for weeks."

Her lips pursed in a thin line, then her outline blurred. Caught in the bola was an old man, in a trench coat, with a fedora. Natasha gasped.

"Shapeshifter," Logan said grimly. "She works for an international project that specializes in super soldiers and humanoid weapons, tricky warfare, maximum punch in a minimal package. Case in point," he nodded down at the woman under his fist. "They have low methods and do not, I repeat _do not_ treat their employees well," he said, glowering. "She can be whoever she needs to be to gain your trust."

"What about the clues?" Natasha said. "What about the necklace?" She looked directly at Ana, who reverted to the blonde.

"The necklace is real," Ana said. "When we found it, that prompted us to look further. The former Soviet Union is a difficult place for us to move in. We thought we could help each other if you got on board."

"And if I passed this test, you'd find a different way to leash me," Natasha said, her voice sour.

Logan nodded. "They put a tracking device in my spine. Experimented on me."

"Where is Kravinoff?" Ana asked.

"Around," Logan said. "Don't change the subject. Ms. Romanova, you gotta walk away from these goons. Whatever they have, you can find it on your own. Don't let them leash you."

"I have grown accustomed to my freedom," she said. "I will not lightly surrender it. But if there is any chance, however slim…" she shook her head. "I don't know. What do I have to do to get the cure?"

"Go to New York with us. We have a facility there. We don't have any more cure with us."

"Go with Logan and Kravinoff and you'll never get a shot at our file on Alexei," Ana said. "They mean to trap you."

For just a moment there was silence between the three of them.

With a loud spang, a bullet smashed into Logan's head and ricocheted into the brick wall. He was bodily lifted off his feet, and he thudded to the ground hard. Natasha was moving at once, twirling into the alley out of the line of fire. Ana dropped and rolled along the sidewalk, smoothly sliding under the car. Logan groaned, but he was unconscious.

"Natasha please," Ana said as she effortlessly slithered out of the bola. "Come with us. We could be a great team. I respect you. I refused to copy your husband, which was the first plan proposed. I want you to come and work with us, not just for us. I want you to find your husband, even if it means you would then retire. I think we could be really good for each other. The offer still stands."

Natasha squatted down so she could look at Ana. "Even if you were completely honest and sincere," she said, "you are being used by those you answer to, making an appeal they cannot match. One way or another they will gather me into the fold." She shook her head. "I am sorry. I have seen enough blood to last me ten lifetimes, a hundred. I don't want to play this game anymore. I would rather die."

"You know it might come to that," Ana said.

Natasha laughed. The sound was fearless, merciless.

At the end of the street there was a startled shout; Natasha risked a glance around the corner. A large man was sailing off the roof of a two story building, twisting in mid air, and crashing down awkwardly on the sidewalk. A shadow moved back from the ledge.

The sniper.

Natasha spun out onto the sidewalk, every sense razor sharp with anticipation, instinct, danger. "If I work with you," she said to Ana as she reached Logan, "it will be on _my_ terms, not _yours_." She hefted the startlingly heavy man to his feet, and they made it to the alley. "Don't follow me," Natasha said, and she supported Logan as they moved away.

Ana sighed, gave them a head start. Then she stood, brushed herself off, and walked down the sidewalk to the end of the street. The big man was sitting with his back to the steps leading up to a door. He was lighting a cigarette.

"Kravinoff?" she asked.

He nodded. "He's good. He's quiet. And strong." He snapped the lighter shut. "Real strong."  
"You hurt, Garrett?"

He chuckled. "No. You need to pick a new identity, 'Ana.' Everybody's recognizing the blonde."

"This better?" she said, shifting into a redhead with strong features and bright green eyes.

"Everybody's a comedian," he grunted. "Why? Why does everybody have to be a comedian?"

She shifted into a woman with long dark hair and pale skin. "Fine, fine, fine. We need to get after them."

"No need," the big man shrugged.

"We aren't taking no for an answer," she said.

"Kravinoff got a small transmitter on her coat," Garrett said. "HQ is tracking their location. Kravinoff and Logan are using bargain basement gear. Anybody can fix on their transmitter."

Ana sighed. "I'll bet you fifty bucks the coat turns up in a taxi all by itself," she said. "Come on, let's go."

"You think we can shadow them?" he said.

"No need," she said. "They're going to the airport to get out of town. Do you trust me, or your training and gadgets?"

He looked at her for a long moment.

She helped him up.


	44. Sucker Punch

**xXx**

Kravinoff, Logan, and Natasha stood at the edge of the runway as the small prop plane prepped for takeoff not twenty yards away.

"Take care," Logan said. "Kravinoff, you get her the cure. Thank you for trusting us," he said to her. "I'll sleep better for every person we free from Tymaz Nine."

"Thank you," she said. "We should get going."

Logan shook his head. "I'm gonna stick around here in case the Project decides to give chase or get frisky. Git. Kravinoff, see you in New York. By the time I get there," he added, turning to Natasha, "you'll be long gone."

"Be careful," Kravinoff said. They shook hands, then the two Russians turned and walked towards the plane. Logan watched them go, stood waiting until they pulled up off the runway and soared into the dark sky.

He turned and walked in to the airport. He headed for the elevators, glancing around. Not much going on here this late at night. No people. He stopped, sniffed, stiffened. Stepped around the corner, looking down the hall to the elevators.

Standing in the elevator was a woman, sleek, her flesh smooth and midnight blue. Dark crimson hair fell straight, framing her face. One hand held the "open" button in the elevator, the other pointed a silvered exotic-looking pistol at Logan's chest. He gauged the distance. Thirty feet.

A long, long thirty feet.

"Logan," she said, nodding to him.

"Mystique," he said to the woman who had earlier been Ana.

"I won't forgive Kravinoff for this," she said softly. "Not for stealing the Widow. Or for making me one."

"You an Creed were never married."

"We were as close as I will ever get," she said. "I lost you; fine, these things happen, I got over it, and I still see more of you than I want to. Now I've lost Creed. Times change, seasons change, years pass, but it is hard to lose an era. Every time it is hard." She cleared her throat. "I will never see him again, Logan."

"So you plannin ta shoot me?" he asked softly.

"Only if you require it," she said.

They were quiet for a moment. Her gun did not waver.

"Pretty low," Logan said, "offerin the cure to Tymaz Nine when you don't have it."

"Logan," she said, "the blows that hurt the most are the ones you don't see coming. An ambush in a secured area. The contradiction of your instinct and experience. I got used to the idea that nobody would ever kill Creed. He was too strong, too resilient, and unburdened by honor and sacrifice. You can imagine how I felt when I discovered I was wrong. He was killed by a man. Not some super creature, or weapon, or poison, or explosion. Hewn down in hand to hand combat." She shook her head. "It's hard to adjust, when you find out your senses lie to you, when you were wrong all along, that you're more mortal than you realized."

"I know this is hard for you," Logan said, fumbling for words.

"I do not want your pity," she said, her voice brittle. "That is the business we are in. Perceptions change. Truth shifts. We are not in this business for charity or for enlightenment. Some find it more difficult to change than others, that's all. I've obtained a measure of my revenge," she said, eyes narrowing, "but I'm just getting started."

"What… what do you mean?" Logan asked warily.

She removed her hand from the "open" button on the elevator door. As the door began to slide shut, she reached into her pocket. Pulled out a canister.

Her eyes locked with his as she pumped the small spray, perfuming herself.

Before the scent reached his senses he suddenly understood, his eyes wide.

Brimstone.

The door slid shut as Logan's mind reeled. Project helicopter. Project tracker. The Project had the cure. And he had been deceived.

Trespasser _was_ innocent.

"What have I done," Logan whispered.

His nose told him Garrett stood not far behind him.

He slowly turned to face the Project agent.

"Any questions?" Garrett said.

Logan stared at him for a moment.

Garrett nodded. "You walk away, I walk away. You want to confront, give chase, do battle," Garrett said, looking around, "this is a public place. It'll get messy. Walk away." He nodded. "Walk away."

Logan walked away.

Garrett let him.

**xXx**

The medical technician removed the needle and put a band-aid on the small pinprick.

"Congratulations," Kravinoff said with a gleaming smile. "You are cured."

She leaned back in the chair, closing her eyes for a moment. Kravinoff could not help but admire the elegant curve of her throat, her delicate jaw, high aristocratic cheekbones, her toned and lithe body.

The door to the medical bay opened, and a dapper executive strolled in. "Ms. Romanova?" he said. "I'm Anthony Stark."

"Pleased to meet you," she said with a small smile, shaking his hand. "We've… done business before. You did not know it," she added with a smile, "but I have both helped and hurt your cause a few times."

"In that case," he said with a grin, "let's hope you'll take advantage of the opportunity to retire."

Kravinoff was surprised to realize he did not like the way she was smiling at Stark. He sighed and shook his head. This I do not need, he thought to himself.

"I'm afraid to invite you to stay for a few days," Stark said, "considering your career."

"I promise to behave myself," she said. "In a few days I'll have some business to conclude before I can go on with my life anyway."

"I would guess I'm happier not knowing about it," Stark said.

"Without question," she nodded.

"I'll be on my way," Kravinoff interrupted.

"Okay," Stark said. "Might want to leave a note for Logan." He smiled at Natasha. "Would you like a tour?" he said.

They left the room together.

Kravinoff let out a deep breath, then glanced around the empty medical bay. For a moment, he felt very alone.

**xXx**

Dawn.

Logan leaned his back against the post with the pay phone. The other end of the line he was listening to was ringing. Kravinoff picked up, "Hello?"

"Smee, Logan," said Logan. "Everything okay in New York?"

"Natasha is cured, Stark is very friendly with her."

"Hardly a shock," Logan muttered, "Russians invented caviar."

"What?" Kravinoff said.

"Not a thing," Logan said quickly. "Look, I ran into Mystique. I was wrong all along, Kravinoff. The lousy stinkin Project got my copy of the cure for Tymaz Nine." He paused. "You led me right to em, Kravinoff. I have my answer. You owed me a hunt and the identity of the thieves. You got me both. Yer a good man, Kravinoff."

"It's been a pleasure working with you," Kravinoff said. "We will meet again, as friends," he added.

"Yeah," Logan said, and for a moment he was lost for words.

"I am not an easy man to reach," Kravinoff said, "but I will be in touch. Be careful, Logan, be swift and safe."

"One helluva goodbye, I bet you say that to everybody," Logan said.

Kravinoff chuckled. "As you wish. Goodbye, my friend."

"See ya," Logan said, and he hung up. His coins rattled down through the phone. He took a deep breath and looked up into the lightening sky, the colors flaring across the horizon. He took another deep breath.

"Life goes on," he muttered to himself. "Makin mysteries, solvin riddles." He shook his head, and almost smiled. "Had about enough intrigue fer one day."

He sighed. "Spies an ninja an robots, oh my," he said aloud as he started walking. He lit a cigar. "Maybe," he said to himself, "I'll win the next one."

The sun rose, the city woke up, and Logan disappeared.


End file.
